


The Fate of Many, The Return of One

by LowkeeWB



Series: Over, Under, and the Great Big In-Between [1]
Category: The Underland Chronicles - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 06:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 21
Words: 60,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20719280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LowkeeWB/pseuds/LowkeeWB
Summary: Gregor never forgot the Underland. Years passed and he still felt its pull on him, disrupting everyone's plan for a normal life. With few options left, Gregor becomes a warrior again in the Overland. When he returns home, he has trouble fitting in, finding a purpose. That's when a message comes from Luxa. Gregor is needed again- but this time he's ready for it.Previously posted elsewhere, being imported en masse.





	1. Prelude : We Waited Too Long

Prelude: We Waited Too Long

* * *

In the end, they had waited too long to go to Virginia. It had taken his grandma's brief recovery, and then a longer and much more painful descent into ill health before anyone could seriously talk about moving again. But by then he was already well into middle school. Gregor had learned to act normal once again, and had regained a small circle of close friends. His mom and dad would not lightly separate him from the few things that attached him to normalcy.

But even as he tried his best to be normal, to keep on the path to becoming a normal adult, there were parts of him he could not shed. Even after the gate in the laundry room was welded shut on the order of the city inspector. Even after a mysterious, immovable bronze statue appeared directly on top of the Central Park entrance, he still thought of the tempestuous time below. The Underland was completely sealed off, but the connection still remained.

For one, the memories of his friends he had left behind in the Underland. 'Left behind' was a strange term though, considering that by all accounts, they had done perfectly well without him. In the years after that last departure, he received not so much as a single message. In fact, the whole floor of their building lacked so much as a single cockroach, mouse, or rat. With no sign that anyone remembered the things he had done, Gregor grew up feeling that _he _was the one left behind.

The memories he could not leave behind were the ones that clung to him. Indescribable scenes of violence, of cruelty and death at massive scales. Of personal losses, comrades lost to time. Too many nights, he had clicked his tongue in the darkness of his room, hoping to sense the reflected echo of his bond, Ares. Despite his best efforts, Gregor could not discard the brief time he had spent fighting in the Underland.

Predictably, it was the fighting itself that proved a problem. Gregor's dad didn't get steady work right away, so Gregor went to public school so that the family could keep up with rent. There was nothing wrong with public school itself. In fact, he would have faced the same problems at many private schools in New York. The issue here was the fact that that he was a rager, and fighting came easy to him.

In most places, he would have been safe after his first skirmish. But Gregor wasn't normal, and the friends he made weren't either. Put simply, Gregor and his friends were nerds. And that made each one of them an easy target. His single scuffle with a bully wasn't enough to create a reputation that would keep him safe. It seemed like every day somebody new enough or dumb enough would try to pick a fight with Gregor or a friend or even a friend's friend. Each fight in defense of them usually ended in with a tackle to the ground, where Gregor's training won out.

By the eighth grade, Gregor was known mainly as a fighter, and not the polite kid who diligently did his homework and paid attention in class. The administrators running the school were willing to look past most fights, thinking that what all the kids did around there, anyway.

A month before graduation, Gregor broke their unspoken rule by being responsible for a hospital visit. In fact, this incident put several kids in the emergency room. It had started with a friend of his getting beat down for cash. When Gregor got angry, the only way to stop him was to give up, to go limp or tap out. Long story short, the group had to be forced to give up. And then Gregor was forced into juvie for the first year of high school.

His parents blamed themselves for always being out of the house, either for work or to keep Grandma company in the nursing home. Lizzie blamed herself for being too focused on her upcoming transition to middle school. Even Boots thought it was her fault because she had stopped asking to be carried around.

Gregor knew all the fault lay with him. Being a rager had first been his blessing but now it was his curse. He didn't have the chance to refine it like Ripred had suggested. With all the entrances to the Underland sealed and not so much as a peep from below, he had tried forget that part of him; the part that had grown in the darkness.

There was little the _pro bono _lawyer could do, even as a favor to the esteemed Mrs. Cormaci. He tried arguing Gregor's actions as justified through self-defense, but the x-ray images of shattered bones, and the witness testimony of Gregor's brutality convinced the judge that nothing less than incarceration would be suitable for Gregor's act of violence.

"The defendant has no place with the rest of these students!", the prosecutor had argued. At the time, Gregor agreed with him, although for very different reasons. But once he arrived to the facility, it wasn't as if the maze of concrete and metal bars was any better of a fit for him. It was so very cold at night there, and the treatment so much colder.

Gregor was a genuinely nice kid, a fact that even the hard-bitten staff of the facility recognized. He was there to learn, despite his apparent issues with aggression and stress. Some of the guards could also see he wasn't bad, but rules were rules. That's why his stay was extended by a few weeks after one of the more unstable teens pulled a makeshift knife on him, provoking Gregor into a rage again. The ultimate defeat there was not simply because he had to stay longer, but because his grandmother died during the first week of his extended sentence.

She had never recovered from her heart problems and the Alzheimers and had passed that very winter. All the doctors and their hospital bills had done was delay the inevitable. It left nothing but a hollowness in him when he found out through a guard. For the first time in years, he thought back to the knight's mausoleum in the Cloister. Hardened, hollow stone. Untouchable, unreachable, but strong.

That was the gist of what Gregor had learned in the icy jail. He always suspected he was nowhere near normal, but this time the message stuck. The dream of a normal life had suddenly left him.

He stayed in public school after that and kept out of any further legal trouble. His father still couldn't get a good job with his fevers and fits, and his mother was still working the same difficult hours in low-paying jobs. Private school was too expensive, and none of the charter schools would make room for a kid who had a rap sheet at fifteen. So he resigned himself to do what he could at his school.

Gregor never got around to playing in the marching band. And the only times he ran track were during P.E or when he needed to tire out the rager blood. For his last three years of high school, he was either at school, at home watching his sisters, or at work (a part-time job at a moving company, thanks to Mrs. Cormaci). The time burned away in long hours at work and long hours at school. By the time he was eighteen, Gregor realized that he had blown it. It was a mere month before his graduation, and nothing had panned out for him.

The past six years since the Underland had been his chance to become a scientist, or saxophonist, or whatever innocent, soft job his parents had dreamed up for him. He could apply to college and maybe get in with his grades, but the scholarships seemed to be reserved for those who had attended good schools or had dedicated themselves to activities outside of school. Despite hours of research, nothing paid off.

Gregor was poor enough, but not dedicated enough to look good on an application. Around that time, he had started feeling like that same desperation he had felt in those final days in the Underland, before he was nearly killed by the Bane. He felt the plummeting fear as he watched his life slip away from himself.

The series of unlucky events surprised him. He had never considered himself a genius, but he thought there would have been more resources available for a student that had tried as hard as he did.

Desperation and revelation combined one day at lunch. A man in a military dress uniform had set up a table outside the cafeteria. Something about the uniform caught Gregor's attention for just a moment. It reminded him of the Underland, although none of the soldiers down there would be caught wearing something so impractical.

_Where's the armor on that? _Gregor could practically hear Ripred sneer in his head.

In that split moment, the man had caught Gregor looking and asked the question that would change the course of his life, yet again.

"Hey there. What's your name?"

"Gregor," he answered, caught by surprise.

"You look like you do track. How fast can you run a mile, Gregor?"

From there, the recruiter did his job. Combining a mix of light flattery, observation, and frank honesty, he convinced Gregor to walk away with a brochure and a promise to visit the Marines recruitment center in lower Manhattan.

That night, Gregor had wondered whether to talk about it at the dinner table. He had decided against it, seeing as Boots and Lizzie were there. But he wouldn't just sign up (or even think about signing up) until his parents knew about it. He had given them too many unpleasant surprises, even before his stint in juvie.

But the situation seemed right, with his sisters almost moving on to the next level of school, and his father's sickness flaring up again. Gregor could become a warrior again, get shipped off far away from New York while his family got along fine without him. Afterwards, he would go to college and get a degree in something suitably 'soft', and finally get back on track to becoming a normal person.

Once Lizzie and Boots were in their room, and his mom was back from work, he brought out the brochures the recruiters had given him. Men in combat gear posed across the cover, cradling their rifles, saluting flags, and carrying humanitarian supplies.

"Oh no. No, no no," his mom said as soon as she saw the brochure, the worry clear in every lines on her face. "Gregor, baby, haven't you had enough of all that?"

Gregor didn't understand what she meant. Then he remembered how much he had hated war after his last battle with the Bane.

His father remained silent, flipping through one of the brochures as though his mind was somewhere else. His silences had gotten more common after Gregor went to juvie and Grandma had died.

"I could understand what you did in the Underland. That was for your friends. But this?"

His mom couldn't comprehend the situation. Gregor's plan had come out of nowhere.

"There's a test I can take that determines my starting position," Gregor said, "Chances are I won't get a combat position. Some of those jobs pay better than infantry, anyhow. In the rear, with the gear."

His mom took a deep breath, her hands tracing the dingy table-cloth, like she had all those years ago when Dad had gone missing.

"The signing bonus could pay for the move down to Virginia, finally," Gregor continued. "Plus, they'll get my university paid for afterwards."

"No. Gregor," his mom refused. "This family has been taken to the breaking point too many times over problems that aren't ours. I don't want you to get hurt for no good... for someone else's reasons."

"Mom," Gregor began, "I'm eighteen now. Legally, I make my own decisions. I just wanted you to know what I was thinking. I haven't even been to an actual recruiting station yet!"

There was something nostalgic in this argument, after years of silent support from Gregor.

"Gregor has a point, Grace," his father said, breaking his silence. "I can't say I approve, but it's his decision to make."

"Fine. But Gregor, I want you to answer my question: Does this have anything to do with your... problem?" her voice was hushed when she asked. She knew that his ability to go berserk was a sensitive topic.

"You said you don't need to see anybody about, and the school counselors said you never showed any signs of anything serious. But... Gregor, baby, do you..."

"Do you want to hurt other people?" his father cut in. "She wants to know if you have a compulsive need to do harm. I know you've tried not to fight since the 'accident', but she needs to hear the truth from you."

Both of their eyes were on him, their tones fully serious now. Sure, he could make his own decisions. But if they felt his decisions were being made for the wrong reasons, they wouldn't be so accepting.

"Mom, I don't want to hurt anybody," Gregor pleaded, "You have to believe me. I was only thinking about this for the money, and the tuition."

Neither his father nor his mother had seen him in the depth of a rager trance. They hadn't seen him as a spinning circle of death, nor witnessed the scores of bodies he had left behind the last time he went to war. All they knew is that he had broken a few of his classmate's limbs in a bad fight, and that he had vicious scars across his body. They had heard the witness testimony in court, too. Nobody had been permanently damaged from that fight, but at the same time, second-hand accounts of Gregor's actions were enough to start his mother sobbing in the court room.

Grace checked her wristwatch, then sighed. She would have to be up in just a few hours.

"We'll talk more about this later, Gregor. But I should let you know, I always wanted different for you."

And with that, she walked off to the layered quilts in the other room that had been her bed for untold years.

"Looking at _this_," his father said, gesturing at the cramped apartment, "I wouldn't blame you for wanting to escape. That's what I was trying to do when I wanted us to move to Virginia. Get away from our troubles."

_"But I guess the troubles got us away first," _Gregor thought, his mind on the air vent - replaced with a solid metal plate and double-welded. He also thought of the statue of the Warrior some Underlander must have added in secret years ago, a massive sculpted form that kept the Central Park entrance closed. The parental urge to get down to Virginia had calmed down after his family confirmed none of the entrances in New York worked and the Underland wouldn't be snatching their children any time soon.

His father also went to bed, but Gregor's mind was too busy with the questions his parents had asked him. When he was just twelve, it was a lot easier to write off his rager instincts as a necessary reaction to serious situations. But every time he got into a fight in the Overland and came back home with tousled hair or ripped clothes, his parents looked at each other with worry. The Underlanders might understand a rager, but he would be nothing but unstable in the eyes of his own people.

Did he like to hurt people? No. But when he was fighting, when his vision started blurring, when time stopped making sense and instead he could feel the pure essence of a battle: there was something that felt _good_. Thinking back on the wounds he had caused could still make him nauseous. But thinking about himself as a force of danger somewhat lifted his spirits. Sometimes he fantasized about wearing the black suit of armor again, as if he could become some kind of superhero straight out of the comic books. But then he remembered what had happened to his Ares, his bond-brother. That's when he remembered none of this was a joke.

Gregor walked to the laundry room. It hadn't been off limits for years, since the grate clearly wasn't budging. None of the machines were running right then, so it actually was kind of quiet, even at the end of the hall on a Friday night. This was where it had all began, with a fall. It was about seven years ago, give or take a few months. He didn't remember everything from back then, but he remembered enough to keep some part of him tied up in the darkness far below.

If his visit to the laundry room had taken place during the time of their prophecies, there would be a message waiting for him right then. Maybe a bat flying up and dropping a scroll, or one of the smaller Overland rats tapping out a code on their walls

Maybe even Queen Luxa herself, rising from the vent, finally corporeal, and not just another daydream. Her deep purple eyes more entrancing than when they had been children together, when they had first fallen in love. In his mind's eye, he could trace out an imaginary outline of her matured form in front of him: elegant, her face in shadow but the message from the rest of her easy to read. She would come to him, eager and- no. That's not how he dreamed of her.

The dream was always of her under a starry sky, even though his city was lousy for stargazing. He dreamed of the way she looked in those last moments before the split: equal parts sad and brave - equal parts tender and resolute. More than a third of their lifetime had passed since that last kiss, since the time they had their last glimpses of each others' worlds. She was no doubt a Queen in her own right by now, the proven leader of an entire race below ground. Who knows what they would think of Gregor the Overlander now, a poor kid with a criminal conviction under his belt and a severe lack of future prospects.

Part of him wanted to stick his head by the grate and yell out for someone, anyone, to come up and give his life meaning again. He was once the Warrior, the very executor of Sandwich's prophecies. But now he was just another young man on the cusp of a lonely, harsh adulthood.

"_How pathethic." _he moped to himself, picking at a bundle of lint someone had left lying around.

"_Eighteen years old, and my 'good old days' are from my preteen years." _Gregor scoffed to himself. He hadn't even hit puberty back then, and he had been feet shorter too. He even lacked the moderate muscles he had gained in the years since, working as a mover. If it wasn't for his power as a rager and the backing of the prophecy, Gregor had a feeling he would have been ignored, just like any other silly twelve year old at wartime.

Actually, now that he thought about it, there was a word for what the Underlanders forced upon him.

"I was a child soldier," Gregor breathed to himself.

If he thought about it, child soldiers in the Overland were kids from poor backgrounds in strange lands, armed with someone else's weapons and easily manipulated by adults.

In a sense, he had fit that bill perfectly, himself.

They take a kid at a young age, show him a few pieces of cryptic writing, convince him that's his role, and then push him so far into a corner that he comes out messed up. That's what happened when he got the Rat King Gorger killed in a near-suicide attack. Then they use their child soldier just like a pawn against the other side's child-soldier, killing everything that -

He was interrupted by Mrs. Cormaci peeking her head around the corner.

"Gregor? I thought I heard somebody mumbling to themselves."

She stopped, and inspected him closely.

"What are you doing here, anyway? I don't hear any machines going."

Gregor subconsciously glanced at the grate while trying to come up with an answer.

"Oh," she said. "You're thinking about _them_ again."

Mrs. Cormaci had only a few encounters with the Underlanders, but she had an uncanny knack for telling how Gregor felt about them.

"I've told you plenty about Mr. Cormaci, right?" she asked.

Gregor nodded. He could remember him just a little bit, as a man with an occasionally generous attitude. He had also been a veteran. She had told Gregor that he suffered nightmares after he returned from war.

"I told you about the dreams he would get, but what he got worse than that was the talking."

"The talking?" Gregor had never heard about that.

"Yes. Sometimes he couldn't get to sleep. So he would just talk things to the pillow and to me."

"What sort of things?"

"Just little things about war, mostly. Like a friend he had made back there, or some guy he promised to meet again but never did. But sometimes, he told the stories."

"The stories?" Gregor didn't know about that.

"Not boasting stories, though. Just matter-of-fact. He was a sergeant when they were fighting on the islands. The smaller islands weren't important enough to send a lot of people, but they still needed them cleared."

"He wasn't in Italy?"

Mrs. Cormaci smiled. " He wouldn't go for the Army and fight in the old country, so he enlisted in the Marines, and managed not to die long enough to become a sergeant. He says that's when things started getting worse for him."

"Why?"

"Well, when you command someone, he said you take their life as your responsibility. He always said it was just more likely to lose someone to a bad decision than to keep making enough good decisions to keep them alive. It hurt him bad when he thought about it. When he thought about the things he did, the things he saw."

"What did he do?"

Mrs. Cormacci thought for a second. "He said he was a 'raider'. He would always tell me about these intense, very stressful situations. They used things like fire, explosives, ambushes. But he would also talk about feeling like he made a difference. And how he didn't feel that anymore back at home."

Mrs. Cormaci had a moral to the story, but Gregor's mind was already far away. He could faintly remember that feeling of strength again, the way that his blood had rushed in more than anger, in righteous fury. He was content to ignore the true meaning behind what Cormaci told him. It was the feeling that he had latched onto. The feeling of being part of something, of making a difference, embodying _force_.

Gregor made his mind about the recruitment right there in the laundry room, but continued listening to Mrs. Cormaci just to be polite.

* * *


	2. Prelude 2 : Born to Kill

After he made the decision to join, everything seemed effortless. Gregor was signed up for a four year engagement with the Marines. His verbal scores on the test were good enough that his recruiter had assured him that after a year or two, he could switch out of Infantry to Communications, where he would keep his mom from worrying and spend most of time writing dry communiques from a base somewhere.

His occupation could actually be shifted after the basic training that all enlisted recruits went through. Gregor had been made aware of the fact before signing, but decided to take his chances. The entire choice to sign up for the armed services was inspired by the recruiter and a strange feeling of connection he had felt with the late Mr. Cormaci.

Graduation from high school whizzed by in a flash. Gregor had no troubles getting his credits in time. He didn't have much going on in his life other than studying, working, and taking care of his family so it surprised him when his name was mentioned at the graduation ceremony alongside a couple of other students who were headed for the military right after high school.

There was quite a bit of applause, but the general military fervor had cooled down in New York in recent years. Outside of a few hotspots, the vast majority of recruits at the time found themselves in noncombatant roles. There wasn't really an active war on when he signed up.

That eased the concerns of his mother somewhat, and the family somehow managed to see Gregor off without too many tears. As soon as he was settled at the Recruit Training Depot on South Carolina, the family would move in with their formerly-estranged uncle in Virginia.

Boot camp was tough, and even looking back, Gregor had trouble seeing some of it as fair. The purpose was to reforge a variety of people into one class of person. There was the PT - physical training - push-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups, running, and even the dreaded 'hump'.

Gregor excelled at running, and could boast of a physique well-adapted to resistance training. When he did a push-up or a pull-up, he only had to move as much weight as was in his body. But when they embarked on a 'hump', Gregor could feel himself hit his limit. It was a timed 12 mile hike, with a full load of gear - dozens of pounds.

Gregor was just shy of six feet, but he didn't start out too wide on his shoulders. His frame couldn't cope with that much weight - a fact that exhausted him quickly on the trails. And even once he exhausted himself and started tapped into his reserves of willpower to continue, he found himself on the very edge of shutting down. It was a new memory to stay with him: his body covered head-to-toe in sweat, his muscles begging him to collapse. And just like the worst of his time in the jungles of the Underland, his feet were rubbed raw, blistering, popping, and then bleeding. But he kept on (and thus escaped much of the vengeance of the drill instructors).

He was a model recruit, the instructors might have thought to themselves when they weren't in the middle of yelling the exact opposite. Gregor was constantly aware and learned quick. Even better, he knew how to get the people around him on board. If someone had a problem, Gregor was usually the first there to 'unfuck' the issue. It wasn't totally out of the good of his heart, though. If someone messed up, it meant more PT for all of them, and Gregor caught enough of that from the essentially mandatory chewing-out that anyone could get for the smallest reason.

Even though he became squad leader for his group in the bunk, the drill instructors knew better than to let somebody go completely free. The lesson Gregor learned along with the rest of his peers was that everyone caught shit, and to perform well was the easiest way to get the least of it.

It was three months, but the time started to blur together after a few weeks. Each day featured extreme physical exertion in the form of exercises and obstacle courses, and then field training, and then actual classes. At night, he got just enough sleep to keep on going. It was more effort than anything Gregor had ever done before, and the immediate demands of the situation made him forget all about the Underland for a very long time.

He became platoon guide, and was promoted to Private First Class. To his surprise, he was also quick and accurate with firearms. He only had a little practice with his uncle in Virginia, but he expected the rager blood had something to do with it. The way Gregor saw it, his skill on the range was just the end result of his responsibilities. He wasn't the only one who somehow managed to succeed in this new environment, but anyone who saw him run, or shoot, or climb recognized that something within him was actually thriving in boot camp.

And so he was approached by a non-commissioned officer he hadn't ever seen before on a Sunday evening. According to the stranger, the toughest and most demanding units of the Corps were not being filled in peacetime, the sort of places where the training was even stricter and where the standards were sky-high. One of these outfits was looking for a few high-achieving recruits to shape into their ideal.

Reconnaissance was one of those high-stakes roles, and thus there were recruiters specifically assigned to increase enrollment. Taking up the offer would mean another pay increase to Lance Corporal before Gregor saw even a lick of combat.

He struggled to explain in the letter to his mother why he decided to go ahead with it. In the end, he couldn't find a specific reason why. Maybe he didn't feel like he could sit out a fight. A few more weeks, and then it was over. They marched in front of the half-empty bleachers, a few families having traveled to Parris Island to see the graduates. Surprisingly, as Gregor found himself being awarded as the best overall recruit, he saw the face of his father in the stands and a man who looked like an older, rounder version of him applauding.

Wrapped up in decorum, Gregor barely had the chance to acknowledge them while on stage, although they finally met once he was released (with a note to appear at a base near San Diego for the 'Basic Reconaissance Course' in a few weeks). His father joked, uncomfortably, that he could barely recognize Gregor, but after a few days of deep sleep and the bliss of inaction, the smile was back on his father's face again.

While resting at the Kent Family farm in nearby Virginia, Gregor had to struggle with himself over the idea that his family was better off without him. His father seemed to have made a total recovery under the sun and the heat of summertime in the South, and his mother was taking enough money home from her job at the town veterinarian's office to start a college fund for Lizzie.

And his uncle wasn't as bad as his father used to tell him. The two brothers had made up, and Gregor realized that they had similar temperaments, with the one exception that his father could accept things calmly while his uncle was calm only until his stubbornness kicked in. He had been in the military, too, although as an Army soldier in the 1980s. Doing chores with him around the homestead, he reminded Gregor that he did have warrior blood in him.

Apparently fighters of all sorts could be found on any side of his ancestry, dating back for generations. His parents were supposedly just an example of the occasional pacifist twist in the family tree.

After too few days of rest, Gregor was on a plane to the West Coast. Marine Reconnaissance training was several steps above boot camp. In fact, he discovered some of his special weaknesses there. The way Gregor came to see it after the first week, all bodies want to conserve energy - to not run too much or lift too much. No one wants to fight forever. But those were boot camp troubles, troubles that anybody could have. The new training was a deeper test.

Gregor could swim, but their exercises included hours in the pool, repeated dives underwater in between long periods of trying to stay afloat. The 'humps' returned, but now they were interspersed with grueling forays into the ocean and crawling across hundreds of yards of beach sand. Field exercises included tear gas, carrying heavier loads, and more psychological testing. Most of the people there had seen combat, and had earned their promotions with blood. Gregor was finding himself outclassed for the first time since he had enlisted.

But those problems passed, too. He learned a lot of things on top of his infantry training, new ways of communicating and observing, entirely new ways to see fighting. The final day was a simulated raid, featuring tear gas, explosions, and more marching, followed by a counter-attack.

During the tear-gas attack, the rager within Gregor awakened at full force. The chemical attack was sublethal but the agents involved were so caustic that going berserk was a relief, and not a fear. Later, Gregor was told that he had carried a weighted dummy more than 3 miles without stopping. It made him realize there was more potential to the rager side of him than he thought. There was more than one way to fight. In a way, it was the most significant limit he had surpassed in training.

Surprisingly, Gregor was assigned to one of the battalions in combat abroad. That letter was a difficult one to send back home. He didn't know how to prepare himself for the fact he was headed into danger, not unless he wanted to think back to the stone knight in the Cloister and chase the peace that comes with accepting death.

His first few weeks on base were tough. He had to find a way to be accepted by the rest of his unit, starting with his platoon. They sent him out on missions around the base (one of the largest in existence at the time) to get nonexistent things like 'headlight fluid' and 'left-handed hammers'. Even knowing these things weren't real Gregor knew to keep quiet and act the fool was the best way to be accepted.

And then, their first patrol. The current role of their military in the region was essentially an occupation force, which meant that reconnaissance was not ahead of an invasion force, but rather as part of surveillance. It was his first time out of the United States, if the Underland didn't count, so everything was new to him. His weapon, his new authorities, and even the way he looked at the world had to change. He was not a tourist here, he was a target, looking for other targets around him. As the 'boot', he ended up carrying a lot of gear while other, more experienced squad members had more specialized duties. They didn't see any enemies for the first few days, following a simple pattern of driving to an area, patrolling and securing it, and then setting up a temporary observation post for signs of enemy activity. But on the day before they reached the capitol city (and its large allied base), word came down from Command of a forward operating base that was reporting small-arms fire.

Given that this was the most solid sign of enemy presence in the area (outside of the remnants of a fire and a few shell casings), their division encircled the FOB and started to tighten slowly, waiting to catch the enemy unawares.

The enemy was found and engaged by a platoon on the other side of the valley from them, but it seemed like they in much greater force than expected. After a few non-fatal casualties, their group managed to retreat and fortify the FOB in preparation for an assault, while other non-recon divisions deployed to assist them.

Gregor had first watch that night, and that's when they struck. It took only the first shot passing over head before the buzz in Gregor's blood overtook him. According to the fireteam leader, nothing really changed in his demeanor and Gregor didn't seem to be taking extreme risks. But he was constantly engaging the enemy, reloading, and then firing again, peaking over cover only for as long as it took to aim at a target.

The enemy assault failed, and the Marines at the FOB were reinforced by dawn, but it still took Gregor a while to calm down and get some sleep like the sarge was telling him to. It made him realize what people said when they described 'a shot fired in anger'. When he had recognized the danger, there was no other way for Gregor to respond. His senses had heightened to the point that he could see his own bullets when they made contact with the people trying to end his. It was the first time he had killed a human person, but it wasn't the last.

The next two years were more of the same - long stretches at bases with little to do, followed by tense ventures into danger zones. He managed to get a Christmas in Virginia, but was back in the field soon after. He wasn't in a hurry to request leave too often, seeing as his family had adapted well without him and because he actually didn't feel homesick at all. Maybe a little bit of that stone knight had rubbed off on him again, a deadening of his emotions. Whatever the case, he got plenty of field experience in the two years before being rotated back to the U.S.

He was recommended for a promotion a few weeks after returning, seemingly after the personnel reports were reviewed. More than being an effective killer, Gregor also managed the people under him quite well, keeping them safe and providing guidance. He had rocketed up with the assistance of quite a few things. He had good fitness scores, good accuracy with a rifle, stellar reviews of his performance, and great results on his practical tests. He was halfway through with his commitment and had already reached a high level, which caught the eyes of another wave of recruiters.

This time the ones that visited him on-base in the US were actual commissioned officers, representing other opportunities for 'straight shooters'. His markmanship and PT scores were the primary attractors here, as these men were looking for additions to their special forces.

This was a far cry from the journalist position Gregor had first thought of, but a sense of duty and a well-trained body had made him overshoot his goal of writing articles for the remaining years on his contract. The role Gregor was suggested to take would include the highest stakes but also result in more pay. Most importantly, it could have the largest impact; To succeed in the special forces would be like proving to everyone the fact that he was born to be a warrior.

And so, Gregor escalated his involvement yet again, to the bewilderment of his family back home. He passed his PT exam with flying colors, provided a well-rounded psychological profile, and showed no glaring weaknesses on the assessment tests. He was practically a 'no-brainer' to select.

Unlike boot camp or recon training, the special operations training didn't seek to exhaust them throughout. The personnel had already shown their skill and conditioning to get in. Instead, all of the effort was put onto training. Gregor's experience in recoinassance and operation was expanded with more knowledge on tactics, technology, and technique. They repeated drills on specific situations, such as detaining targets, search and rescue, targeted killing, close quarters battle, and more.

It was nine months of non-stop education, but it transformed Gregor's sense of the world and his role when he fought in it. The last few weeks of training had even gone so far as to include lessons on irregular warfare, to essentially change the course of a war by interacting with one side or the other. It was tough, but by the end of it, Lance Gregor Kent had become a Sergeant Gregor Kent.

After a month back home, trying to ignore the looks his mother would sneak at him, and the way that Lizzie would stare when she saw Gregor's silhouette at night, another deployment started, but this time in high-tier operations.

* * *


	3. Prelude 3 : The Siege of Saqiq

Report on Person of Interest: NY321 'Gregor Kent'

Author: WP

Recommendation: Assess in Person

Cpl. Kent was was an operative for a while. In fact, his 22nd birthday passed before any notable events were occurred. Service records report that he was frequently engaged in operations across the world. In fact, by the time the Saqiq incident occurred, he should have been become accustomed to the long deployments with just his team in the field, performing activities such as raids, training allied forces, and gathering intelligence.

The Saqiq Incident was quite a bit different than their usual action. Reports of a planned invasion of the allied microstate of Saqiq had prompted a mission to secure the vicinity of the Embassy.

The report ended up being correct, and an extended conflict to seize the embassy started. A neighboring country sent a large militia across their border, overwhelming the peaceful country within a day. The military and police of the country were limited to a few remaining strongholds, and the invading militia took the opportunity to attack an embassy complex that featured offices from many countries.

The attack opened with car bombs, followed by infantry, and ending only 36 hours later, when an allied coalition managed to break through the enemy lines and secure the small country. This would all be very well and good, except for the fact that, by the time it happened, all 12 members of Cpl. Kent's unit had been recorded as Killed in Action.

In the days afterwards, stories were passed around the various participants in the conflict. Embassy staff reported the selfless sacrifice of the defenders, a willingness to fight tooth-and-nail for every section of the compound. In fact, despite the fact that Cpl. Kent was the only survivor, his unit had held off a much larger force for two days and a night.

When the news was reported back home, the first thoughts were naturally regret for the lost marines. But then the second question was how the last member of that squad managed to survive, and because he was still unconscious three days after the attack, it was left to the witnesses to tell.

At first, the 13-man detachment had held positions at the walls of the compound. However, after losing guard staff to sniper fire and explosives, the decision was made to pull back and fortify the grounds surrounding the embassy proper. Thus, they retreated at nighttime and set up defenses. The unity containing Cpl. Kent would hold an advanced position the grounds, while the surviving guards and security forces would occupy the embassy building itself. This gave the operators more room to move, while making sure that the various ambassadors within and their large body of staff would have a second line of protection.

The strategy worked well, as friendly air support and sniper fire prevented the opposing force from making their way into the compound. Roughly a day passed in a basic pattern where the enemy forces would attempt an attack and get repelled by the trained operators. However, an enemy commander must have gotten wise to the strategy and thus called off the smaller attacks to build up force for one final attack.

It was a ceasefire of sorts, a night to get everything prepared in anticipation of one last, final, defense. As some of Cpl. Kent's group helped dispose of sensitive materials (through shredding and incineration), they received information on the situation.

A combined force of state security forces and rapid-response units from multiple countries were attempting to make it through to their position (at the heart of the city) and thus protect the international group of VIPs within. However, the coalition had also faced strong opposition up until that very night. Units were being moved for the final attack on the embassy, opening up an opportunity for the allied forces to make their move.

That meant that whatever was going to happen to them would be done by the next night. For hardened men of duty like those in Cpl. Kent's unit, it was likely an uplifting thought. They had been on active status for about seven months already, which meant that they would probably be sent home to their families after the battle. Rather than those covert training missions or week-long surveillance trips, this would be one day's work.

Most of the people in Cpl. Kent's unit were older than him, on their second or third term. They had families of their own, not just fathers and sisters, but wives and children. The grim determination to see the mission through dominated the night.

Which was why it took an attack of more than a thousand before they were defeated, and why more than 400 dead lay in and around the compound. The attack took place a few moments before dawn.

The gates were the first thing to go, blown off their hinges by a truck packed with gunpowder and plastic explosives. Cpl. Kent was positioned at the rear of the compound, so he could only have heard the loud boom from the other side of the embassy building.

And then the sounds of his unit's two mounted machine guns. One was a heavy .50 caliber model retrofitted from an inoperable vehicle, and the other was the standard infantry weapon. With those machine guns, their two skilled snipers on the embassy roof, and the 7 other people dug into the courtyard and sheltered behind sandbags, there was no way a small force could squeeze through the gateway and attack them with enough men left to overtake them.

A few failed offenses prompted the enemy to retreat. No one had been hurt, except for their lieutenant, whose arm had been hit by a spray of shrapnel. He was taken inside the embassy to be treated, and Cpl. Kent was shifted to the front of the compound to take his place.

The scene was chaos, shattered concrete marking the places where fountains and a garden of ornamental plants had once invited guests. The wooden guardhouse by the entryway had been turned into pulp by the fire of both sides. The enemy dead lay everywhere, even obscuring their vision. They would have moved the bodies, but it was impossible with the way enemy snipers had set up across the street. The walls would protect anyone who stayed in their fortifications.

The last attack happened three hours before allied forces would arrive. It was an all-out infantry rush, slowing down only after the gateway filled up with bodies. Around this time, Cpl. Kent's team was running out of ammunition. It was necessary to constantly have two fully automatic sources of fire for the purposes of suppression, so rationing attempts could not be made on the machine guns.

It didn't matter, in any case, because the next attacks used explosives first. It seemed that a resupply had went through for the enemies. Ancient grenades starting raining from over the wall, sometimes exploding, but often just being duds. This is where the first fatality occurred - a man diving onto a grenade to protect four others near him. There were no chances for any form of medical treatment, though, because the rain of grenades was followed by enemy sappers breaking through the wall. Cavities were dug into the masonry to allow penetration, was filled with explosive, and then detonated. This opened up a wider avenue of attack, outside of the machine gun's kill zone. The next wave of infantry forced the unit to retreat to their secondary line of defense, a trench dug six feet into the sand.

The enemy, emboldened by the retreat, filled the compound with higher and higher numbers. One of Cpl. Kent's squad members was stranded with the machine gun, and was rushed by the vanguard of men with blades. Such was the enemy's inhumanity that they dragged the body out to show the defenders, even as it cost their lives to taunt them.

The marines' counter-attack was swift and also used explosives. An array of mines had been set under the ground, to be remote-triggered. After the MG emplacement was taken, there was no reason to hold off on detonating the mines. The detonation of the mines entirely cleared the compound again, the shrapnel and concussive force coming from below and taking the enemy by surprise. Now, there were only 9 operators available to defend and their disadvantages only grew.

The next hour was filled with furtive attacks that cost the enemy much more than it cost the defenders, but it was enough. The last man guarding the rear was killed by a grenade, which forced the sniper team to split their attention between the front and the back of the walls. At one point, Cpl. Kent was splattered with blood when the man next to him took a shot that grazed along his neck. Cpl. Kent could barely attempt to keep pressure on the arterial wound, because they needed every weapon firing to push the assault back.

By the time they had secured their position again, the bleeding was too bad. Nobody could have done anything for the wounded man then, other than move him inside so that he could die in the shade. They had received a radio message from Command saying that their allies were roughly an hour away, but their spirits weren't lifted. They had all studied tactics and the flow of battle. The enemy would be pushed even harder towards the embassy by the reinforcements.

And they were right, because an enemy mortar crew had retreated back into the range of the embassy, away from the larger battle at the border. The first sign they had gotten of this was a white phosphorus flare being shot into the air from some distant position. It was a mortar round, trying to find the right place to hit to target the building. Judging by the arc, it was a lot closer than it needed to be. It wouldn't take them long to zero in on the building and the innocents inside.

A two person fireteam was made from volunteers. Using the cover of a friendly bombing run, they would go into enemy lines and destroy the mortar to prevent the complete destruction of the compound. Cpl. Kent had volunteered but radio communications recorded during the incident demonstrated that the squad would not permit him to go.

Their given reasoning was partly that he had less infiltration experience and that he could better protect the compound than either of the volunteers. This was the first and last use of a nickname constructed for him on the spot. The "Burning Boy" had a flame in him better suited for all out battle than more subdued actions.

The volunteers were partially successful. They did take out the mortar team and destroyed its store of ammunition, protecting the embassy from direct attack. However, this was after several salvos had already hit the embassy grounds. A high-explosive shell reduced two men to nothing but liquids and fragments, leaving Cpl. Kent alone in the trench. After a bombing run from their allies, the attacks weren't so fierce, especially considering that the two volunteers were being surrounded by a larger force. They got as far as two blocks back towards the compound before their radios went silent. Their bodies were recovered soon after the embassy was secured, mere hours later.

That left Cpl. Kent, the snipers on the roof, and their injured lieutenant as the survivors from the unit. The guards and police had assisted from the embassy, firing from the windows, but the building would not hold up as well as the compound's outer structures had, even with its special architectural additions for defense.

The true final attack happened as soon as Cpl. Kent had gotten inside, the thick metal doors closing and locking behind him. The final stand would take place inside the embassy. The sniper team held out as long as they could, but could not retreat after an enemy rocket team targeted them. They were recovered from the rubble, having survived the explosion only to die of suffocation.

The last stand in the entrance of the embassy was similarly mixed - the defenders managed to avoid the first explosive assault, but there were too many entrances to the building. The defenders collapsed inwards and upwards, trying to delay as long as possible. Each security door and fortified stairwell added minutes, and their allies on the other side of the city were coming ever closer. But finally, there was only a handful of guards, a secretary who knew how to shoot, and Cpl. Kent's lieutenant, who had been gut-shot in addition to his shrapnel wounds. Cpl. Kent had himself taken a couple of hits, one pistol bullet stuck in the thick muscle of his upper thigh, and a larger-caliber hole in his left shoulder.

According to surviving guard staff, the lieutenant gave his weapon to Cpl. Kent, along with the rest of his ammunition. Just as with the volunteers for the mortar intervention, his commanding officer had seen something in Cpl. Kent.

In the next fifteen minutes, military forensics reported that thirty assailants were killed and fifteen wounded by the last-ditch efforts of the remaining defenders. Cpl. Kent was reportedly 'indistinguishable from an animal'. He fired until his weapons were empty, forcing his enemies back into lower floors. He ordered a guard to bar the door behind him, but the staff followed him, securing each level after he went to a lower one.

Lines of communication had broken down between the invaders within the embassy and thus they could be ambushed in the fading light of dusk. Security camera footage shows Cpl. Kent with his knife and a snarl on his face, eliminating stragglers and then using their weapons against their comrades. His apparent use of echolocation directed him in the pervasive clouds of smoke, granting him a supreme advantage in the windowless interiors of the embassy building.

In fact, he almost forced a retreat of the enemy force. Realizing they had lost too much time and thus wouldn't be able to escape the arrival of the allies, a state of panic was observed in the opposing force, as Cpl. Kent faced the more stubborn and duty-bound who had stayed behind to die instead of take their chances elsewhere. It was one last explosive that almost sent Cpl. Kent to a death of his own - he had chased a wounded insurgent down the stairs when he spotted a package of C4. Before he could act, it detonated in a definitely lethal range.

But in his rager's mind, he had ignored his allies behind him. His lieutenant was bringing up the rear and had a keen eye for traps. He saw the C4 and recognized what he had to do before Cpl. Kent could, moving in front of him and forcing him to the floor, his body protecting him.

The concussive blast killed his commanding officer, and pushed Gregor into unconsciousness. It was only the quick actions of the embassy guards that prevented him from being executed during the next offensive.

The compound was almost entirely clear when the allies came in, and the larger group of coalition forces cleaned up well. Attack helicopters circled around the area, eliminating whatever insurgents kept up the fight. Armored vehicles rolled down the street, blasting the remaining pockets of resistance. The rapid response units were elite themselves, and managed to clear the compound quickly and without further friendly casualties, despite themselves also being at battle for the entire day.

Gregor was quickly taken in for a medical evacuation. He briefly stirred as the helicopter touched down, and saw the body bags lined up next to him, the names of every member of his team written in permanent marker. The realization was too much for him, and he passed out on the spot.

-END REPORT-

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author note during 2019 republish: I realize how detached the prelude is from the remainder of the story. Here, I publish it in full. But I am not very happy with how the prelude misaligns with the themes of the two works.


	4. Recovery

When Gregor woke, he was lying on a medical cot in a row with other cots. There was a variety of men there, all with minor injuries, such as broken limbs or flesh wounds. Judging by the heat that was barely being managed by the fans, this tent was still in Saqiq, or nearby.

He was still waiting for the lieutenant to poke his head around the corner, only a few years older than him but somehow on top of everything. Or maybe the Staff Sergeant, stern but not unkind. But reality hit Gregor soon enough. They all were dead, he had seen their body bags himself.

A doctor, noticing that Gregor had stirred, pulled up a chair and sat with him. He had a British accent and a bushy mustache, but still looked to be quite young, a pair of thick-rimmed glasses hanging from his neck.

"Good morning, there. How are we...," the man looked at the chart to confirm, "Sergeant Gregor Kent?"

Gregor coughed lightly before answering. "It's Corporal, actually. Where am I"

"That's not what the sheet says, but never mind that. You're recovering at Al Udeid in Qatar. The hospital itself is too full, even for a hero like you. Now tell me, are you experiencing any dizziness or nausea?"

"Nothing but a headache. What happened to the embassy?"

The doctor clearly knew who Gregor was, because he answered without hesitation.

"All staff evacuated successfully, along with many of the guards. But that was several days ago. You were only recently transferred here from the hospital proper. Can you try to recall the past few days?"

Gregor closed his eyes, trying to shake off the intense wave of exhaustion that came as soon as his sight turned black. He could faintly remember his stretcher being unloaded from the helo, then a series of surgeries, being put under anesthesia for most of them. But he could remember somebody feeding him some sort of mush, and the brief flash of shame as a nurse helped him with a bedpan. But the last thing he could clearly remember beyond the hospital was the few remaining defenders on the top floor of the embassy.

"I know most of my unit is dead. Did the lieutenant make it? I don't remember seeing him on the medevac."

The doctor pursed his lips and suddenly became quite intimidating, his heavy brow furrowing and his eyes hardening. Gregor could read the answer before the doctor could speak, but kept quiet because the part of his brain that wasn't temporarily shellshocked needed the answer in its official language.

"For what its worth, I hear the whole unit is in for practically all the medals they could find to give."

Gregor knew that was only a minor consolation for all of those families left without their sons and fathers. He tried to hide it, but he was tearing up again.

The doctor respectfully looked away to his patient files. After enough time had passed, he continued his assessment.

"Any pain from those wounds? You were relatively untouched by the explosion, but there are still those pesky bulletholes."

"I'm fine," Gregor said, his mind set on the image of the stone knight's sarcophagus, the caskets now filled by the men of his unit. They would retire their unit's code-name, as they usually did following events like this.

With permission, the doctor reached his hand to the places where Gregor had been shot. Now it was the doctors turn to close his eyes as he examined the bandaged surfaces with the tips of his fingers. Gregor noticed that the man was missing the last two fingers on that hand.

"You heal quickly. The wounds are are already mostly closed, although it will be quite a while before they're truly sealed and your body is returned to how it was."

Gregor let out a sigh of relief. He had spent too much time in combat hospitals, even before he had joined the Marine Corps. In Regalia, he had been in and out of medical care after each of his adventures.

"And with that, I must mark you as medically cleared for transport. But before I enter the results, is there anyone you would like to talk to?"

"Talk to?" Gregor asked, confused.

"There's quite a lot of intelligence personnel waiting to debrief you the moment you are declared clear. It could take quite some time, so a quiet call on the satellite phone might be in order. You know, parents, siblings, your girlfriend?"

"Yes, but I don't have a girlfriend."

"I'm sorry," Dr. Parry apologized, "You were calling a name out in your sleep, so I just presumed..."

"What name?"

"Erm yes, the name?" The doctor took a look at his notes. "Luxa. Bit of a strange name, that. I guess it's my fault for presuming-"

"You weren't entirely wrong," Gregor said. He didn't want the kind man to feel put out of place for trying to make things easier. "It's just that I haven't seen her in quite a while."

"Ah, yes," the doctor said. "Long time ago and a land far away and all that, then?"

"Exactly, but maybe not in the way you think."

As Gregor said this, he thought he could grasp a flicker of deep understanding between him and the man. A certain current of deep feeling ran underneath their words, as if the subject they were discussing was perhaps far more dear to them than either of them could reveal to a stranger.

The moment passed when a man with two legs suspended in casts started groaning. All the doctor could do was hand a boxy satellite phone to Gregor.

"What's your name? I didn't catch it."

The doctor turned so his nametag would be more visible, and spoke.

"Parry. Will Parry. Have a nice day, then?" he said, waving as he rushed to the other patient.

Gregor dialed the Virginia farmhouse, the international-format number memorized from dozens of previous calls.

Boots answered the phone after a couple of rings. She was twelve now, but still insisted on being called 'Boots'. And although the Underland must have long since faded from her mind, she retained a strange air of royalty- although she was a tomboy in all other aspects, helping their uncle at the farm and generally enjoying the freedom of the outdoors.

Winter break had started for them back home, so she happened to be awake at the late hour he was calling. After a few pleasantries, including the cliche 'I thought you were dead!', she woke up their parents, who had fallen asleep waiting for news.

His mother cried a little bit, and his father was clearly holding back emotion himself, but they managed to get all the information they needed: Gregor was fine, he was recovering, they could probably expect him back by Christmas.

"You're all over the news," his mother told him. "I'm so sorry to hear about the rest of them - some of them were old enough to be fathers, I can only imagine..."

His father took the phone. "Listen, Gregor, things might be hard now, but I want to let you know that we're all glad you're safe, and we're waiting for you back home. Even Lizzie, although she might try to hide it."

Lizzie was a senior in high school now, so she didn't act all attached to Gregor like she used to.

"I'm glad to hear it, Dad," Gregor said, then caught sight of a group of men in suits and uniforms approaching his bed. "Gotta go, talk to you later."

The newly arrived group waited while Gregor finished his call, then approached. One of them reached out his hand and Gregor took it, glancing warily at the others.

"Good morning, Sergeant Kent. I'm Captain Nichols, with Intelligence."

Gregor tried to recall the specifics about decorum in a hospital bed, but the intelligence officer didn't show any signs he wanted a salute.

"The men with me are from various other divisions, departments, and agencies. We've already interviewed a number of the other survivors but we wanted to hear the 'frontline truth' from you."

And so Gregor told them the details around the 36 hour standoff, the multi-stage defense, and the final day, when their defenses were broken. He stopped at the part where he took his commanding officer's shotgun.

"And that's all I can remember," Gregor said, sheepishly. He knew there were events after it, events involving his rager blood and the lieutenant protecting him, but he couldn't recall them.

"That's perfectly understandable. Now, Sergeant, we have the greatest respect for you and your unit's sacrifice. With that being said, we're going to ask you to view videos from the embassy. Would you be willing to describe what you see?

One of the attending intelligence officers brought out a sleek laptop, very different from the armored models that would be brought on a combat operation. There was a video ready-to-play on the screen, with a label reading 'CLASSIFIED' in the righthand corner. They pressed play.

Despite the poor lighting conditions, the cameras at the Embassy approximated night vision by using digital intensifiers. It took him a while to recognize what he was seeing in the green-tinged playback. A figure was hiding underneath a desk. Three men entered the room, searching it alertly.

When one passed in front of the hidden figure, he burst into action, knife plunging into the back of his target's neck. The figure then seized the rifle and started firing in automatic, killing the other two men before they had a chance to turn. The gunman shot the bodies twice in the head before turning to leave. As the figure exited the room, his face came into focus on the normal camera. It was Gregor, his gear splattered with blood, a crazed snarl on his face.

Watching it from the hospital bed, Gregor felt a sudden lurch of nausea as he realized he _could _remember being there, doing those things. The intense elation he had felt, like some twisted hunter getting his prey, felt dirty in the light of the morning. The men watched his reaction very closely.

"Now, Sergeant, could you explain where you learned this particular technique?"

"In the field, sir."

"Right. And to the next video..."

The next video showed a group of 15 or more preparing to enter a room. They appeared to have somebody cornered. One of the men prepared a grenade and was about to throw it in. However, just as he crept up to the doorway, a shotgun blast erupted from it. The man fell over, his grenade primed and rolling towards his comrades. It detonated, dispatching half of the men. Gregor emerged from the doorway with his gun, finishing off the few that were left breathing.

"How did you know they were about to throw that grenade?"

"Instinct," Gregor lied.

The next video was shot from one of the rooms that had a staircase entering in upon it. A group of men rushed down the stairs, some tumbling in their rush to escape. Gregor was close behind, firing bursts from a comandeered rifle. The video slowed down, as Gregor's lieutenant, hobbled over on the stairs, dove to him. An explosion then killed the camera feed.

"Lieutenant Acosta saved your life right there. But he was gut-shot. He had no reason to be out there, following you. Why do you think he was following you there?"

"I have no idea."

"Yes, you don't. Sergeant Kent. However, W," the captain said, referring to the group of men, "Act under the impression that you display one of the finest sets of combat skills we have ever seen. Superb reflexes, reaction time, strength, stamina. But there is one issue. Sometimes, it seems you lose your inhibitions. Your commanding officer on this op must have known that. I understand that you're approaching your end-of-service, after four years in the Corps. If you find you prefer civilian life, all the best to you," the man said, his words seeming insincere.

"But if you want to get back into service, or need help adjusting, call this number," the man handed Gregor a card. "We represent a multilateral effort across the armed forces and the government to monitor situations like these."

The men gathered up their things and stood to leave.

"Now, with that being said, would you like us to chase off the press? It seems every reporter embedded between here and Korea has managed to find a way in here."

Gregor thought about it. He could get pretty bored just lying in bed all day. Reporters could be nice conversation.

"No, I'm open for interviews. But only one at a time, and only when I feel like it."

"Very well, Sergeant. We'll assign a liason to keep them orderly."

The man stood for a second and then turned to Gregor, as did the other men around him.

"You all did us proud, son. You saved a lot of lives," he said, and saluted.

Gregor returned the salute, and the men were gone, as suddenly as they came.

The doctor with the missing fingers came back over. A nurse had gotten back on duty, and was tending to some of the other patients.

"Now that all of that's done, you'll be wanting some food, I expect," the doctor said.

Gregor realized that he hadn't eaten anything solid for days.

"Yes, please."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Author's note: Yes, Will Parry is technically a character from another book series.  
But his role in the story shares little with the original story, and I don't consider this a true crossover series.  
He has a role much later.)


	5. Dialectics

The reporters came less like a storm and more like an endless trickle. Some of them just wanted a picture and a quote, while the others would stay and ask him a very long set of questions. Some of them brought presents, like little bottles of whiskey or idiosyncratic teddy bears. Gregor could tell which ones wanted to have the exclusive rights to his life story, so that they could publish the almost-mandatory memoir or biography.

But a few were genuinely kind, asking him questions about how he felt and what his plans were for the future. They promised to keep his family out of the papers. One reporter, for some sort of glamor magazine, wouldn't stop asking him about his love life.

"You say you don't have a girlfriend, but surely there must be _someone _out there."

Gregor tried to remind her that he had been an especially busy marine for the past 4 years, and although he went out with his friends when he was back in the U.S, he didn't like the casual scene.

"Oooh, so you're the 'true love' kind of guy?"

Gregor looked to the press liaison, who shrugged. If Gregor wasn't actively trying to force a reporter out or if the questions didn't reveal state secrets, she wouldn't jump give anyone the boot.

"Yeah, I guess I am."

"Wow, how romantic! The war hero, struggling through battle after battle, just wanting to return to his fated soulmate."

"Umm, I don't know about-"

"If she's not your girlfriend now, does that mean she's an ex? Oh emm gee," the reporter said, reciting each letter with glee, "I can see the headlines now: Heroic Marine Saves Embassy, Wins Girl Back"

Gregor could only hang his head. Some of the reporters had no respect for the many lives lost defending their position. All they saw was the person living at the end of it. As the sun was setting, that was the last reporter for the day. The liasion laughed a bit, saying that Gregor was doing quite well for never having training. The events at Saqiq had only been possible because of negligence on the part of multiple high-ranking people across the command structure. Creating a story all about Gregor and his survival took public attention away from the conditions that caused it.

All the boring time in the hospital reminded him of the Underland, and with all the free time recently, he had start remembering it quite a bit. That last bit of time with Luxa, in the museum, or saying goodbye in Central Park-

His thoughts were interrupted by Dr. Parry pulling up a chair. He wasn't wearing the white coat now, although he was still wearing a shirt and tie.

"Sorry about that. You looked like you were having a nice spot of reflection," Dr. Parry said, the smile wrinkles showing in the lantern light of the barracks.

"It's fine." Gregor put on his own smile.

"I'm off duty, so I thought I'd poke my head in, see what's up."

"Not so much as an ache on my part, but plenty of reporters."

"Ahh, yes, the press. Not so bad when they're bringing good scotch, though. Do you mind?" Dr. Parry gestured to one of the bottles they had brought.

"Scotch for a wounded man, what were they thinking? Probably read too much Hemingway," the doctor said, his dark mustache bristling at the very thought, before he saw the label.

"Oh, but that's a nice one, that is. I wouldn't begrudge you an inch or two, on account of its antibacterial effects."

"Really?" Gregor asked, his eyes widening.

"Sure, as long as I get a little, too. Have to test it myself and all that."

Grinning, Gregor gave the go-ahead, and Dr. Parry poured two sizeable portions into plastic cups.

"To the press!" Gregor toasted, as they knocked the cups together.

"To the press, indeed," his drinking partner agreed, downing the whole glass at once and refilling it with another two-finger pour.

"My mum had a bit of trouble with them, back after my father disappeared. He was an ex-Marine. Although he was the royal sort," Dr. Parry continued.

"He disappeared? Did they ever find him?" Gregor asked, the story reminding himself of how he once had to search for his father.

"Well, I did. They didn't. And once I found him, I didn't have time at all to get acquainted." the man took another sip, his face surprisingly even. He had accepted that particular tragedy, it seemed.

"How'd you end up out here?" Gregor asked.

"Medicine. I became a doctor quite a while ago, and I volunteer for a group that attends to crisis zones around the world. It just so happened this Saqiq business happened while I was on vacation. They flew us out here and we've been tending to all sorts of patients since then."

"Doesn't that get hard? And dangerous?"

"Yes, it's quite dangerous. But I feel like I'm safe, in some strange way. There are plenty of people watching out for me, after all."

"Hmm," Gregor thought, ruminating on that last idea. The force of prophecy once convinced Gregor he would die only when the time was right.

"But you've sent plenty of people to their deaths, haven't you?" Dr. Parry accused, his words starting to slur. "I could feel so many fragments on you. And going back quite a way, too."

Gregor glanced at the doctor's face. It had gone deep-red with that classic blush of the drunk. The doctor was clearly not usually the heavy-drinking type.

"I can't blame you, Gregor. I have more than my fair share of blood on my hands, myself."

Gregor remained silent. The strange British doctor clearly had more to say.

"Nothing can make it right, Gregor. I understand you're a soldier and that's your job, but we aren't supposed to be like this. Killing is always a traumatic event for a human. To be desensitized to death is the only way someone can handle it as part of their daily life."

Gregor could remember his first kill in the Underland. He had fought before that, had dodged and dove his way to safety. But eventually, he couldn't run from the curse that drove the Underland. An endless cycle of death, pre-emptive strikes and counter-attacks followed by revenge raids and 'clean-up' operations.

In the Overland, things weren't that different. It was a fact that Gregor's actions as a killer had saved lives. But the question that had always been at the back of his mind, even in the most intense sessions of physical training, was why those lives were at risk in the first place. Gregor's country had been involved with their enemies at a previous point in time, and he wondered how many children he had made grow up without a dad.

And now, decades later, Gregor had killed scores of men, men who were related to other people. The survivors would remember the dead and regret their loss. But they wouldn't regret it enough to not go looking for revenge. And so the chain of atrocities became a cycle that fed itself. Gregor had saved at least a hundred lives and prevented an international crisis. But he had in turn become just another linkage in the chain of hurt.

At one time in his life, soon after leaving the Underland, Gregor had rejected war. And again, a similar thought was approaching him.

Dr. Parry had stopped his ramblings, watching Gregor's thoughts play across his face.

"I didn't mean it like that," he tried to explain.

"No, you're right. This isn't the first time I've killed."

"I could tell. An anger runs in you, like a wild river. But many other things do besides."

Now it was Gregor's turn to analyze the other man's face closely. Dr. Parry was dead serious, even though his expression was clearly softened by the liquor.

"How can you tell?" Gregor asked.

The man wiggled his fingers. "Magic, Sergeant Kent. There's a magic that binds us all together. I read it through my fingertips."

Gregor was actually inclined to believe him. Despite the alcohol involved, it was actually quite believable. And because he had once flown on a giant bat and talked with large rats, Gregor was inclined to accept something like a man who could read the deeper things through his hands.

Gregor's tiny portion of whisky was gone, so he set aside the cup. After a moment's hesitation, he opened the front of his gown, revealing a torso covered in scars. Dr. Parry didn't bat an eye at the sight.

"That's a rather weathered exterior for one so young."

"I had an... adventurous childhood," Gregor said. "But could you read these scars and see what caused them?"

"Maybe," the dark-haired man replied. "It isn't so clear like you might imagine. I can read the medical reality of the body perfectly well, but the emotional world is always less clear."

Will took his hand, and with the utmost of control, seemed to sort out and trace where things came from.

"Ah, this one is clearly shrapnel from two years ago," he said.

Or, when he came across the deep claw marks on his chest, "That was life threatening. Almost snuffed you out right then and there, huh?"

Gregor nodded.

After examining the multitude of other scars from the bites, cuts, and scrapes he had received, Dr. Parry concluded the examination.

"There's no other way to say it, Gregor. Some of those scars are otherworldly. I can feel a different place beneath them. A place without the sun, and yet, some light."

Gregor chuckled. "That's a pretty accurate way of describing it."

"Ah, and the nostalgia. A greater warmth you found here than you ever did on the shifting sands. Love, Gregor. Or at least what passes for love between the unfortunate young."

Gregor grimaced. He didn't want to think about that place right now, the people he had lost, the people he had left behind.

"I once found myself in a similar position, I believe," Will said.

"Let me begin by asking you: Did your father ever go missing?"

And so Gregor and Will talked about their own fantastical pasts. Both of them had been visitors to another world, people chosen by prophecy. A journey of sacrifice, of growth, and finally of departure. But lost somewhere in those stories were tiny fragments of something they both tried to skirt around: love.

"So, this Lyra girl, did you ever see her again?" Gregor asked.

Will smiled his bittersweet smile. "Once every year, on Midsummer's day. But it isn't seeing like me and you see each other now. It's... metaphysical."

Gregor sighed. Oh, what he would have given to even see Luxa even once after they had said their goodbyes. Before the entrances were sealed and the messages cut off, before Gregor had let the rager in him take control for just a moment too long.

"Don't be so down, Gregor. It's best to give these things time. For a while, I couldn't even see her. All I could do was imagine her. But changes happen. In this time, or another, you'll see your Luxa and she'll see you."

Gregor looked so incandescently happy at the idea that Will sobered up a bit and returned to the uptight persona of Dr. Parry.

"With that being said, I'm just a doctor. Not a witch, or an angel. I'm not reading the future here. But I feel like we have too much in common to not share at least a bit of fate."

"It _is _weird," Gregor agreed.

Dr Parry checked his watch and clucked his tongue.

"Is it really that time? I'm sorry for keeping you up so long, Sergeant Kent. I should let you get to bed."

And before Gregor could say anything more, the British doctor hurried out of the tent, nodding to the nurse on duty.

Left with a nearly full bottle of whiskey and a lot of free time, Gregor might have been tempted to keep drinking. It beat the idea of whatever awaited him if he went to sleep. But eventually, he stashed the bottle with the rest of the gifts and rolled over to sleep on his side. He was so tired that he couldn't even remember his dream the next day. It must have been something unpleasant, because he had woken up in a thick layer of sweat, despite the air-conditioning unit running next to his bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Author's Note: Next chapter reunites Gregor with his family.)


	6. The Call

The next few days were like the first - interviews, pictures, videos. And afterward, he and Dr. Parry would talk about things. A few times, men in suits would check in on him. But finally, about a week after he awoke from the last defense at Saqiq, Gregor was put on a plane back to the U.S.

Any moment that his attention was not being entirely taken by other people, he was left with a leaden load of guilt. Everyone said he was a hero, that he had saved many lives, but there were still nagging doubts that bothered him. How many of his dead allies could be blamed on him? The question went unanswered.

After processing at San Diego, he took a plane to D.C, taking what few belongings he had accrued during his service. He wasn't prepared for being a celebrity.

First was the mass funeral at Arlington Cemetery. There were cameras and press, but they were kept distant, away from the rows of flag-draped coffins. Their eyes and cameras were forced to focus on him, and Gregor could feel the pressure. He could scarcely bring himself to look at the families of the men he had served with. Their tears and their kind words alike made him clench up with hurt. He remembered Ares, one last bloody claw locked into his hand. The coffins went under the earth and the mourning entered its new phase.

All of those news stories had piled up and made him something of a war hero back home. His face somehow ended up on the cover of a few magazines and pictures of him and his unit showed up in newspapers. Their story was a familiar one to tell: a few men stood against a far larger force. What some of the papers failed to tell was the fact that Gregor had been supported by the rest of his unit and the guards. There was a posthumous flurry of medals for them all, and some were reportedly being considered for the highest possible medal. The president at the time was sensitive to the subject of embassies in crisis, as many U.S embassies had become sites of crisis and tragedy in the past.

When his plane touched down in Richmond, the screens had pictures of his face, superimposed over the flag. The text at the bottom of the image read 'Welcome home Sargeant Gregory Kent'. Gregor didn't bother acknowledging the mistake, just nodding cheerfully at the people who had swarmed to surround him, various workers and travelers. Finally, a security officer managed to get him away from the crowd and into a side hallway.

"This passage leads straight to the executive terminal. The airline agreed to hand-deliver your bags later today," the woman said, leading him through a series of doors to the executive departures terminal, a separate and smaller-scale building for private craft.

Before Gregor left, the security officer wanted Gregor to sign a napkin, so he did.

The man operating the departures terminal didn't want a signature, but spent nearly a minute thanking Gregor for his service.

And after that, Gregor was finally free. After a quick hug from his uncle, he was on the way back home, although it was several hours from Richmond.

"Sorry about the drive. They wanted a cheaper ticket," Gregor apologized.

"It don't matter. Your pa and ma were busy with work. Apparently it gets real hectic right before Christmas," his uncle said, taking a long drag off of an unfiltered cigarette.

"Yeah, I guess it does," Gregor agreed.

His uncle had always been the stoic type of guy, so he and Gregor didn't chat much as they headed down the winding highways. Ever since his divorce years ago, his uncle had become a mellower guy. The smooth hum of asphalt underneath the truck's tires was a welcome relief from the _whoosh _of helicopter blades chopping air. Gregor leaned his head against the chilled glass, relishing the cozy heat of being sheltered in wintertime.

When he got back home, his family surrounded him, with hugs all around. His dad squeezed him especially tight, and his mom wrung her hands as she showed him around the house. There was the tree they had planted at the beginning of his service, yes, and the two elder Kent men had built a sunroom expansion to the house (using Lizzie's design). Here was his room, next to Boot's, please ignore the hockey stuff she left in here, _et cetera._ It felt like things were back to normal.

Around the table that night, they tucked into a special meal. It was still more than a week from Christmas, but the family had pulled out all of the stops. A dish from practically everyone in the family, plus tall glasses of their uncle's homebrew for the adults. Even Lizzie, who recently had started calling herself 'Lizbeth', was enjoying herself in the company of her family.

"Hey, Gregor, are you going back?" Boots asked, a few moments after dessert had been brought out.

"Margaret!", their mother hissed, but Gregor answered her.

"No, my term's up and I'm not thinking about going back."

"Smart man," his uncle grumbled, in between mouthfuls of cobbler.

"In any case," his father said hurriedly, "We're just glad he's home, and safe."

That was something the entire family could agree upon.

Gregor spent the next few days napping, eating fresh fruit for the first time in a long while, and helping his uncle out around the farm. He pitched hay for the horses, led the dairy cattle out to pasture, and helped dig up new garden beds for the next planting season.

The farm was actually mainly around just to keep his uncle busy after he sold off most of the family land to a commercial farmer. The money his parents earned by working covered all of the bills, so most of the stuff on the farm was either there to feed the household or to have fun. Which meant, naturally, that his uncle had a shooting range out in the wooded fringes. They only used it when all the other family members were out of the house.

Gregor had found that his uncle talked the most about things that he enjoyed. Guns happened to be one of them, although it was partly due to a general interest on survivalism. His uncle had all sorts of goodies ready for a hypothetical crash of society, basic supplies like survival foods, expensive flashlights, water purifying systems, but also less typical things.

The enthusiasm was nice for Gregor, after the strange distance that had grown between him and the rest of his family. They still loved him, but they were unsure of who he was. He had no idea how to explain the ways he had changed in the past four years, and how it was nothing to be afraid of. It was like returning from the Underland, but somehow easier. His uncle blew right past all that stuff and was glad there was another person around who knew some of things that he did. Sometimes they would hunt deer on their neighbor's wooded plot. It made his mother worry sometimes, even though she had loosened up enough to let Boots keep a pocketknife around for her carvings.

That Christmas was one of the best in Gregor's life. He had used some of his savings to buy Lizzie a powerful desktop computer, and managed to get Boots a new pair of softball cleats and a set of professional color pencils. He got a matching set of mugs for his parents, and even bought a goofy sweater for his uncle, a mass of bright-red wool emblazoned with a smiling snowman with a fluorescent orange carrot-nose.

His uncle said he had forgotten all about his gift, but the next day, he showed Gregor his purchase: it was a handgun. But not any handgun - a double-stack adaptation of a M1911 pistol.

"I know how you leathernecks prefer the old .45," his uncle had said, with a wink of the eye. "This one is an upgrade. The whole thing is wider, so you get more bullets per clip. It came with spares, too."

Gregor took the pistol and the magazines loaded with bullets gratefully, making a mental note to test them out once the holiday was over and everybody started going out of the house again.

He spent the rest of winter like the earlier part, helping out his uncle with the farm and with hunting, killing time at their makeshift firing range, and enjoying the luxury of privacy and a home. He got to know his family again.

His mother was less stressed now, although she sometimes showed signs that she wasn't ready to fully relax when Gregor was around. His father had fully adapted to life as a science teacher in small-town Virginia, not making a lot of money, but at least making a difference in his new-found role at a high school. Lizzie had remained somewhat the same, sometimes quiet and nervous but always smart, and was about to head to U.V.A on a scholarship for Engineering. She enjoyed the puzzles and the way the real world added levels of complexity to physics.

Boots was quite the tomboy - although she also had taken an interest in her middle-school art classes. But she only took time to draw after softball practice and in between chores around the farm. Gregor wasn't sure what she wanted to be, and knew that Boots was also stumped. But she at least seemed to be getting along with her classmates and didn't show any signs of being affected from her brief spell as the 'Princess' in the Underland.

The people in town were fond of Gregor, as he found out when he ran errands for the family. They had a great enthusiasm for the armed forces and Gregor's major story of heroism. They offered to let him work at their various businesses if he needed to, and he actually favored the idea of choosing one of them if he didn't end up applying to college soon.

Gregor didn't feel any pressure to start up another career. He had settled into a comfortable pattern by helping around the farm during the day and drinking whiskey late at night. He had picked up a fondness for the bottle, but he didn't let any of his family catch on to what was happening. Sometimes, the drinking worried him, but most of the time he relished the ability to force himself to forget the bad memories and the guilt. But he knew that if it went on for too much longer, things might become a fully-fledged problem.

It was a typical lazy evening around the house when they got a call on the house phone. Boots answered it, in a surprising show of responsibility. But what really shook the whole family was who was on the other line.

"It's Mrs. Cormaci. She says... there's a bunch of rats squeaking at her?" Boots said aloud, doubting her words. They didn't really talk about the Underland with her, and she hadn't remembered a thing, so it sounded like gibberish to her.

"Also, she says they brought a note for Gregor. She says it's a bunch of symbols she doesn't understand."

"Oh, jeez," Gregor whispered to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Author's note: The Underland is calling...  
Will Gregor answer?  
Spoiler Alert: Yes.)


	7. Presents

"Gregor."

His mom was standing between him and the phone. Gregor himself stood up, and made eye contact with her. His face was a solid stone, impassable, unreadable. But his eyes said enough to his mother.

After a few hearbeats of tension, she stood aside. Gregor rushed to the phone.

"Gregor, is that you?" Mrs. Cormaci asked. "How are you, are you getting enough to eat?"

"I'm great, Mrs. Cormaci," Gregor said, "But what about the rats? Are they bothering you?"

"They calmed down after you got on the speakerphone. They're running out to the hallway..."

The line was silent for a few seconds while she followed the rats out, then she came back.

"They're all running back and forth between our room and that grate in the laundry room," the aged woman reported. "Oh my, they've gnawed their way right through the floor out there."

"Hold on Mrs. Cormaci, I'm on my way!" Gregor said, handing the set to his father.

"Gregor? Where are you going?" His mother called after him, as he headed upstairs to his room to pack.

"I can be at the old apartment in seven hours. If I start now, I'll get there before 1 A.M," he called back.

"But what are you planning to do over there?" she asked.

"I just need to see what the rats' note says," Gregor yelled absentmindedly. "Just to keep them from bothering Mrs. Cormaci."

There was silence from downstairs as Gregor shoved the last of his socks into his backpacks, along with his holstered handgun and the three extra loaded mags.

His uncle had wandered by Gregor's door.

"Listen, come down to the tool shed after you're out of here. I've got a few extra things," he said.

"Gregor, I'm not against you here," his mom said when he arrived downstairs. "I just want you to think about what's happening. Do you really want to risk your life for those people again?"

"They gave us about a decade of silence, Mom." Gregor reasoned. "Something must've come up that they can't deal with alone. If they need me, I'm going back down there."

"But why?" his mom asked. "Does it have to do with that girl, what was her name-"

"No, it doesn't have to do with her," Gregor said. "It has to do with what's right. I've helped them before, and they helped us. They didn't ask for Dad to get dropped down there, but they helped me get him back. And they sent the medicine, and let us sell their artifacts for money -"

"We understand, Gregor. You're a grown man now," his father said. "We want you to make your own choices. Just know that you have a family back here that's waiting to see you again."

He hugged each member of his family and headed out with his pack. As promised, he met his uncle at the tool shed.

"Take these," he said, handing him a case. Gregor opened it and found a box marked '200 rds - .45 ACP'.

"200 rounds? Are you sure?" Gregor asked.

"You never know what you'll find down there."

Gregor turned to leave, but his uncle stopped him.

"You're gonna want a better pack than that."

His uncle revealed his 'bug-out pack', the bag he planned to take when things were serious and he had to run - a sturdy backpack with a variety of storage pouches on the outside and a large volume on the inside. It had been loaded with water, survival bars, and a few other items of gear that might be necessary, like rope and a harness to mount his most important items.

Gregor quickly repacked, before his uncle wrapped him up in a quick embrace.

"Go get 'em Gregor, you've got Kent blood in you, all right."

Gregor was about to get in the family car when he realized he didn't know where he would put the car once he got to New York.

His dad came out of the house, with Lizzie in tow.

"We'll come with you to Mrs. Cormaci, Gregor. No sense in going alone, now."

And so they got in the family SUV together, perhaps for the last time. He tried hard not to stare at the disappearing glow of their house in the rear-view mirror.

The first few hours were passed by Lizzie and his father debating strategy with Gregor. How to get in contact with the surface, how to let them know he would be headed back up, and even what he would do in worst-case scenarios, like there not being any bats left to take Gregor back up. Or if Gregor was taken hostage.

"I couldn't escape back then, but Gregor has training," his father reasoned. "Don't they drop tear gas and such?"

"Yeah, they did," Gregor admitted, "But that wasn't the focus ofSERE training. It was about ways of protecting yourself, even when you can't escape."

"But what about getting a message to us?" Lizzie asked.

"If you don't get a message from somebody or something on the third day, something has probably went wrong," Gregor said. "Call the number I gave you. It was given by a group that could send people after me."

"That sounds promising," agreed Gregor's father. "I just wish there was a radio or something you could take."

"Radio waves can't penetrate that far into the crust," Lizzie said, matter-of-factly. "Given enough time and materials, a relay could be constructed-"

"Constructing a relay?" Gregor asked. "I'm only going to be down there a few days."

"That's what you say every time," his dad warned.

"If you end up visiting more often, it wouldn't hurt to consider it. We would just need some copper wire to set up a one-way line. Morse-code telegrams to begin with, and then maybe a-"

"This is all assuming a reliable source of electricity can be found, of course," his dad added, for Gregor's sake.

"Alternate solutions include altering the frequency of EM radiation, either focusing on radio propagation or penetrating certain surfaces based on their mass-attenuation coefficient. It would require surveying the proximity of Regalia and creating a model," Lizzie said, the words getting faster and faster. She was nervous.

"That sounds like some high-budget science work," Gregor remarked.

"And we don't have that kind of money," their father joked. They all chuckled a bit, and fell into silence.

The next stop happened when Lizzie needed to go to the bathroom.

"Why didn't you go before we left, Lizzie?" Gregor asked.

"I go by 'Lizbeth', Gregor," Lizzie reminded him.

"Fine, fine," he said, as they pulled up to the gas station.

Gregor went inside and picked up a pack of cigarettes. He wasn't planning on smoking when he was down there, because the smell of cigarette smoke would be a clear giveaway down there. In fact, he wasn't sure what he would do about his scent in general. In Regalia, they bathed to keep themselves scent free, but if Gregor couldn't get there soon enough, he'd be sending a message to everyone who could smell him that he was from the Overland.

"What about this stuff, Gregor?" Lizzie asked, showing him a spray bottle. The label said 'Scent Killer'. It was the kind of thing some hunters used and a hilariously cliche thing to find in a Virginia gas station.

"Worth a shot," Gregor acquiesced.

When he showed the bottle to his father, he was surprised that he already knew about the stuff.

"It makes scientific sense. When we smell,we're picking up the volatile organic compounds emitted by materials - stuff like sweat and BO smells more because of their concentration," he lectured, sounding exactly like the science teacher he was.

"A spray like this coats surfaces with a neutral smell like ozone, and stabilizes those compounds."

"That's actually pretty cool," Gregor said.

"Baking soda and water would have a similar effect, although somewhat weaker," his father added.

"Where'd you learn that?" he asked.

"Guess it must have been my father. Either that or one of my brothers. They were the hunting type," his father said. "I never really went for that kind of stuff."

Gregor could feel something unsaid at the end of that sentence, but knew better than to press it. Before the Underland, Gregor had been a peaceful, reasonable kid. Sometimes he wondered if his father would have preferred dying down there in the darkness rather than have Gregor descend and be changed.

But he _was _the one driving him out to New York, back to where it all began. Maybe his dad had already accepted what his son had become. Maybe he was proud that his child had made a difference somewhere. It was the wrong moment to ask him, so Gregor shoved the question back down inside him, along with a hundred more things left unsaid.

The rest of the drive was uneventful, and they finally reached a parking garage a few blocks from their own apartment just a little bit before 2 A.M. The neighborhood was quiet and felt quite safe, even to Gregor, who had become hypersensitive to any sign of danger after years at threat of ambush.

Mrs. Cormaci buzzed them in and they climbed the stairs to get to her floor. The lone rat in the hallway told them all they needed to know.

"They've calmed down, but they're still keeping watch," Gregor said to his dad and sister.

Mrs. Cormaci opened her door as soon as she heard his voice.

"Gregor, is that you? And you've brought your father and little Lizzie! My, how you've all grown.

Mrs. Cormaci looked somewhat the same, although her hair had really grayed and Gregor could see a carefully hidden walking stick nestled in the umbrella stand. The rest of the apartment looked untouched though. She even had food out and waiting.

"I've already fed their messenger a little of the casserole and he loved it, if that makes any difference to you."

She gestured to a little white rat who was dozing in a makeshift nest made of old socks. Its body was criss-crossed by tiny bite-marks and blisters.

"I expect you'll be wanting to see the note, then," Cormaci said, showing them a tightly rolled piece of paper about the size of her pinky. "I can't read any of it but they must think you can."

Gregor took the scroll and unfurled it, the top of the note had one word in his alphabet: 'GREGOR'. The rest of it looked like the symbols used in the Code of Claw.

"I can translate," Lizzie offered, pushing aside her bowl of soup. "If I recall correctly, this means..."

Mrs. Cormaci got her a piece of scratch paper and she started to piece through the message. Lizzie had a great memory, so she managed to pick up the basics of the code and decode the message after a few minutes.

"It's not complete sentences. Three lines, with a lot of abbreviations," she said, setting aside her pencil and pushing the message to Gregor.

The first line: 'REGALIA IN PERIL POISON'

The second line: 'CNTRAL PK OPEN WILL HAVE ESCORT"

The third line: 'V SAY SORRY RR COMMAND L"

It was simple enough to understand what the message said: Regalia was in danger from some sort of poison, and someone was waiting underneath Central Park for Gregor. The last line used shortened symbols - V was probably Vikus. RR must have been Ripred, and the final letter, the L was Luxa signing the note.

"They need me back," Gregor explained to his father. "They mentioned poison, so it might be the ants - the cutters."

"Hmm. I guess they aren't sending a bat to the grate like they usually do, then," His father said. "That Central Park entrance seems a lot more vulnerable."

He had a point. The last time Gregor had gone down the Central Park stairs with his father, Ripred had pounced on him to reinforce the importance of echolocation. It had scared his father to no end.

"In any case, I don't think you can go tonight. They're closed after 1 A.M," Cormaci said.

As they spoke, a mouse wandered into the room, and froze when everyone's eyes were on it. It sat on its haunches and raised its paws in the air.

"It's fine, but just for tonight," Mrs. Cormaci warned it. "But if I see any of you on my floor after this, it'll be straight to the rolling pin and poison, understand?"

The mouse nodded and scurried to the side of the napping messenger rat, licking its wounds.

"If the nibblers and gnawers have managed to get their smaller cousins to work together, things must be pretty bad down there," Gregor said worriedly.

"If they've waited this long to send you a message, it can wait till the morning," Mrs. Cormaci reasoned, and showed them her spare room.

"Lizzie can sleep on the kids' old bed, Dad on the floor, and Gregor on the couch? That sounds good to everyone?" she said. "Oh, Gregor, could you help me with the blankets?"

He followed her through her doorway to her open closet.

"There are blankets, but that's not the main reason I asked you to help me," she admitted, and then gestured to a footlocker she had pulled out in front of a stack of quilts.

"What is it?" Gregor asked, examining the dented surface.

"Well, I figured if you were going back down there, you might want something of Mr. Cormaci's. I told you how he was also a marine, yes?"

Gregor nodded, and she opened the lid. Wrapped within an oiled cloth, there was a gun of some kind and a few slightly dented box-magazines.

"He managed to sneak a few things back after the war. He would take it out every now and again on nights he couldn't sleep and clean it."

Gregor examined it. According to the description, it was a U.S military-issue M3 submachine gun. A generous layer of preservative grease had kept it from rusting and the stamped-metal surfaces of the weapon only bore a few scratches. It would be a pain to degrease the weapon, but Gregor had picked up a few tricks on it. In another bit of luck, there were four box-magazines that shared the box, fully loaded.

"He got the bullets off a mail-order catalog decades ago," she added, as she saw Gregor inspect them.

The legal status of the ammunition aside, they seemed seemed in good condition, but weren't full-metal-jacket rounds like the one his uncle gave him. They had soft-tips, probably designed to expand inside of the targets, but they could possibly be more effective against unarmored targets. Even better, the primers on each cartridge were sealed, meaning that they would probably still fire.

Gregor also found a knife in a leather holster, and pulling it out, found that it was the old-style kind. It still had kept some of its edge, despite being left lying around for decades. It was a relatively thick blade with a point that ended past his hand and a well-defined edge extending down one entire side of it. It lacked any of the serrations that Gregor might have expected from a military knife, but it was still a good piece.

"You should have it. None of the other boys really went in for this sort of stuff," Mrs. Cormaci said, smiling slightly. "I guess he would be happy to know that it would eventually get put to a good use."

As he went to the couch to get his few hours of sleep before sunrise, Gregor was stuck with the idea of the old Mr. Cormaci, working on cleaning his equipment at the dinner table, the cold, stamped steel in his hands somehow a greater comfort than his wife or kids. Gregor himself had drank to avoid that dilemma, the strange lack of warmth in his bones that lasted even after he got under the covers and the thick quilts at home.

The memory of the people he lost were not easy to shake, and his mind couldn't help but bring them up all the time. His squadmates had been knit tight together after only a few months - they had protected each other constantly. But now they were all dead. It wasn't the first time this had happened. Ares had saved Gregor many times. And now he was dead. It felt like he had never got the chance to say goodbye. Gregor closed his eyes to those echoes, and tried to let exhaustion take him.

* * *


	8. The Descent

He woke up before anyone else. His digital watch, still set to military time, showed that it was 0700, or 7 A.M. The sun hadn't yet risen, but Gregor couldn't get any more sleep. His body seemed to reject any more. Left with a nervous gap of time between now and sunrise, Gregor double-checked his gear.

The M3A1 had been nicknamed 'Grease Gun' because it looked somewhat like a tool mechanics would use to apply lubrication to motors. It was a cheap, mass-produced thing but it worked. It came with its own cleaning kit, and so Gregor took the whole thing apart. It was a simple construction, and it seemed like everything from the spring to the rifled barrel was in order, now that he had removed the grease. He wouldn't have the chance to test-fire it for a while, so Gregor just made a mental note to do so as soon as he had an opportunity below-ground. After checking his pistol, Gregor turned to the knife. Using just a drop of oil, Gregor got to work with a whetstone honing the edge to its best sharpness. The sound must have been louder than Gregor could tell, because Lizzie walked in, wiping the sleep from her eyes.

"When are you planning to go?" she asked.

"Just as soon as Dad and Mrs. Cormaci wake up."

"I see you are going to take firearms with you," Lizzie said. "Have you considered hearing protection? Tight spaces like that are going to amplify the sound."

"I still have the pieces that I bought for myself back after my first combat deployment."

Lizzie had taken an interest in electronics, so sometimes military-grade technology was something they could actually talk about together without any awkwardness.

"Those ones with an inbuilt adaptive limiter? Those cost-"

"They cost a bunch back then, but you don't have to worry about it," Gregor finished for her. He had tried not to touch his signing bonus and accrued pay by relying on the family, so he managed to keep a healthy bank account.

The rest of the people woke up soon after, and they ate a hearty breakfast in silence, only interrupted by Mrs. Cormaci asking questions about Boots and their mom.

Gregor hoisted his pack onto his shoulder as soon as he was done and made to head out, but his father caught his elbow.

"If you wait until we're finished with breakfast, we can walk you to the slab."

Gregor nodded and stood by, waiting until every last fragment of food had been snapped up. Once they had all thanked Mrs. Cormaci for the meal, they bundled up into their winter gear and headed out. It would be somewhat of a far walk, but Gregor didn't want to risk losing his gear in a taxi or on the bus, so they all walked together. On the way, Lizzie kept Gregor alert with another barrage of questions.

"Do you know where to- where to shoot the cutters?"

"The head?" Gregor answered, tentatively.

"Ants _do_ have a cluster of nerves, a ganglion, in their heads," Lizzie agreed, her brow furrowed with effort. "I don't know how hard their exoskeletons are, though."

Gregor thought back to his fight against the cutters when he was trying to defend the starshade fields and preserve the cure for the plague.

"Not hard enough," he said, unable to stop a grim smirk from breaking out. Immediately, he forced it back down.

Lizzie thought for a moment, and her breathing got sharper.

"What if they're not just talking about the ants down there? What about spiders? And If you included venomous species, they could be talking about snakes, or scorpions or-"

Lizzie broke off as she started hyperventilating. They stopped and sat down while they waited for her panic to fade.

"It's fine," their father said. "You've seen the articles on him. Gregor can handle himself out there."

Gregor himself hadn't read those news stories, preferring not to even look at any of things that came up when he searched for his own name online. But he did know people thought he was some kind of action-hero commando straight out of a movie, just because he was the one lucky enough to survive.

"In any case, I don't think they're gonna have a war again," Gregor added. "All of the warmbloods, plus the crawlers and the spinners agreed on a peace deal. Maybe they just need a quick quest for some lost artifact, or maybe I need to be a tie-breaker on some kind of vote for them."

"Those are all nice ideas, Gregor," Lizzie said, her voice low. "But we all know they wouldn't have called you back after this long unless they really needed you."

When they got to the entrance in Central Park, the statue that had once sealed the exit after their last visit had been toppled. All that remained was a disaster scene. The old slab itself had been smashed, leaving the staircase below clearly visible.

A lone police officer was standing nearby, watching over the hole and the caution tape and idly digging a boot into the concrete.

"That looks like a problem," Gregor said to his dad and sister.

"Lizbeth already had a plan ready for this," their father said, and before Gregor could do or say anything else, Lizzie fell to the ground, jerking and rolling, faking a seizure.

"Go, Gregor!" she whispered.

The cop rushed over to check things out, leaving Gregor free past the growing crowd and ducked under the tape surrounding the pit before anyone could notice.

The flight of stairs was long, and got progressively dominated by shadows, but Gregor still had the power of echolocation. It was just like riding a bicycle, he found. The skill didn't wane, even after a few months out of practice.

He was careful on the last few steps. Somebody could have faked the note, so he was careful to check for hidden assailants, waiting behind a pillar to pounce on him.

Finally, he was down in the old tunnel. The construction was relatively recent on the historical scale, certainly not as old as Regalia, and could have had any number of origins. He hadn't been interested about it when he was twelve, but he was too busy to research it now that he was twenty-two and rushing to resolve a crisis.

Nobody was around, as far as he could see. His watch said it had just reached 8 A.M in the Overland. Now that he was away from the rules and regulations of the land above, he decided to unpack some of his things. The knife would go on his left hip and his handgun would be concealed in a holster tucked into his waistband. He decided to keep the SMG in his backpack for now.

It wasn't totally impossible to see at that level of the tunnel, but Gregor kept his eyes closed because it would help him visualize the bouncing soundwaves when he clicked his tongue for echolocating. After a few minutes, there was a rumbling from further down the tunnel. Something was approaching. It didn't take to long for Gregor to be able to perceive its whole form. It was a digger, one of those gigantic moles that had only revealed their survival towards the end of the last war. They had allied with the rats after Sandwich had poisoned their water supply, but things were supposedly peaceful after the 'killers' and the 'gnawers' had decided to stop the war.

"Hello," Gregor said to the oncoming mole. The ones he had met before didn't seem to be able to speak, but they could understand.

This one stopped a respectful distance away and and pushed the star-shaped bundle of sensitive tentacles on its face to the concrete beneath their feet. After a few moments, it turned, so that its side faced Gregor.

He could see some sort of harness on his back. As he approached, the shape became clearer - it was something like a saddle.

"Do you want me to ride? Are we going to Regalia?" Gregor asked.

The gigantic mole let out a high peep. Gregor took this as an affirmation, and climbed on top of the digger's large form, using a stirrup that someone had set. It was designed for humans.

After the mole was sure he was securely mounted, it suddenly bursted off with an amazing amount of speed. Digger feet were low to the ground and had large pads, which meant that diggers could cycle them back and forth and move faster than most other land mammals. The speed didn't lessen as they started to take various side tunnels that descended deeper. Gregor didn't remember the journey ever being quite as rough before, but the land route from Central Park was probably longer because of the Waterway below.

He wished he could speak with diggers, because he could have asked this particular one why they had to take a longer way around. Maybe the enemies were organized right outside the walls of Regalia. Maybe the tunnels were unsafe for bats. Either way, he had trusted this random digger, without knowing anything about what had changed in the Underland.

Suddenly, the mole stopped, digging its claws into the stone to slow down. They were at a large pool of water. The mole knelt by the edge and stuck his entire snout into it. Gregor could hear loud slurping as the underground dweller started drinking. Deciding he should dismount and stretch his legs, Gregor hopped off, taking a quick walk around the cavern. He wouldn't turn on his flashlight just yet, preferring to work on his echolocation. After a bit of that, he got tired and went back to the pool in the cavern. There, he knelt by the same water and dipped his hand into the water to sample it. It was cool and sweet, and seemed to be all right to drink.

The enigmatic digger gave an impatient honk, and Gregor mounted up quickly. The illuminated face on his watch told him that it was already 10 A.M, but he had no idea where the time had gone.

The strange network of tunnels eventually became something that Gregor could recognize -he could see the distant dusky glow of something, maybe torchlight. The Digger made one last ascent up a tight tunnel that seemed to be clawed out of from the rocks, and suddenly Gregor could see the distant stone spires of Regalia.

They were in the fields. But the light wasn't coming from torches. It was coming from row upon row of burning crops. The digger had come right from the darkness of below into a place that could have passed for the fields of hell.

* * *


	9. Il Bellator

The lighting system the Regalians used for their crops relied on some kind of subterranean gas but something had gone terribly wrong, because the lamps were spewing columns of fire straight into the air while the crops below them had already been burnt nearly to cinders. The entire place was swirled in smoke, which made both of his methods of vision difficult.

The journey wasn't over yet, apparently. The digger had not been expecting the flames, it looked like, since his worried honks and peeps grew in volume one they saw the full mass of smoke around them. The digger looked left, and then right, trying to find an exit pathway. But Gregor saw something more important heading straight at them: soldier ants. But these weren't like the cutters he had seen so many years ago. These were bright red monstrosities, their pincers dripping with some foul liquid. And in the air above them, some sort of buzzing, winged insect.

"It's BEES!" Gregor yelled at the digger. "Go back!"

The mole didn't need to be told twice. It must have read the vibrations seconds after he had seen them. Gregor unholstered his pistol, waiting to see if the insects would catch up.

They actually could, even getting within ten yards of them. He couldn't line up a bead on any of his pursuers, so he decided to not waste the ammunition on missed shots. He fished a spare magazine out of his backpack, and tried to hang onto the digger's back without pointing his gun into it.

He knew if the fields were on fire, something was majorly wrong in Regalia. But he had to focus on the more immediate threat, like the three red ants that were snapping at the digger's tail. Just by looking, he could tell that these larger ants had an entirely different kind of poison. They were thicker and had larger pincers than the cutters that had wiped out the plague cure in the jungle. They were adapted to kill.

And keeping pace just behind them were two large bees. They zigged and zagged as they followed the curvature of the tunnel. After killing the ants, he would turn his attention to them.

The first opportunity came when the digger managed to find a steep incline. As they went up the challenging slope, the flying insects and the ants were practically lined up behind them in pursuit. Aiming not with his head but with the precise rager instincts in his body, Gregor opened fire. Two shots in the closest ant and its head erupted into clear fluid. A third shot devastated another ant, the bullet piercing straight from the jaw to its abdomen.

By the time that he could aim at the other ant, it had started to drop back in surprise. A single shot was all he needed to finish that one, even at a distance. The bees had disappeared from sight as soon as the first shot rang out.

"Are you okay?" he asked the large mole. It didn't make any noises, but kept going at its breakneck pace. Gregor checked how many shots he had left by checking the markings on the side of the magazine. He still had eight shots left, and didn't count on the ride being stable enough to load any more from his backpack. As long as there weren't any bees, he would be fine.

The thought was fitting, because as the digger skidded around a corner, they pretty much collided with a swarm of the buzzing creatures. The numbers were so great that Gregor coudn't help but lose himself. Their large stingers were pointing towards them. This was an ambush, and they were going to stick those terrible weapons into him and the digger - poisoned barbs that were as long as his forearm.

He emptied his gun at the nearest ones. They were even more vulnerable than the ants, he found. They would fall, twitching, the moment a bullet entered them. Because they seemed to lack significant defenses, one shot seemed to go through as many as three at a time.

It wasn't enough, though. two had stuck themselves into the digger's back. Gregor went for his knife and cut the barbs out of those dying bees, but didn't think he could pull the stingers out proper.

"I'm sorry, man," Gregor apologized, even though the bees had already given up their chase, choosing to flee back the way they came, pursued by the digger.

He head a familiar rumbling. It had been his first introduction to the people of Regalia. It only increased as the digger continued up this new tunnel. They must be near the arena, if he could hear cheering.

They did arrive in the arena, but the sound Gregor heard wasn't cheering. It was the sounds of a pitched battle. The entire arena floor was a swirl of movement, with too many different types of Underland creatures to understand what was going on. Thankfully, the digger seemed to have stopped as well, perhaps to use those tentacles and read out how the battle went.

Gregor's binoculars were tiny, but they were good to see from the highest part of the bleachers, where the hastily-made tunnel had come out. From his position, he could identify the general makeup of this fight.

To his relief, the treaty must have held for the last ten years, because he saw humans, rats, mice, and moles fighting side-by-side. Their opponents were a variety of insects. He couldn't see any spiders or cockroaches, but there were plenty of ants, from the cutting-type to the fire-red killing type. Bees were hovering high overhead, possibly explaining why he couldn't see any bats. But the absence of bats wasn't the only negative thing that he could see. It was clear, even after a few seconds of observing, that the warmbloods were losing the battle.

The number of ants was difficult to face. In addition to this, their pincers seemed to bring instant death. Through the binoculars, he saw many fighters fall after one bite when pincers managed to find a gap in armor or get through the fur of an overwhelmed fighter. The bee-stings also seemed to be instantly fatal. If the length of the stinger didn't finish off a target, a certain toxic compound made the wounded topple over and go into seizures on the floor. Even still, the allied forces on the ground floor of the arena were fighting their hardest. The nibblers would dash in and out of the range of the larger ants, taking a leg or two with each attack. The humans would use the longer reach of their swords to puncture enemies and leave them bleeding out. The diggers resembled lawnmowers from afar, using their extremely durable claws to tear swathes through the enemy. Even the gnawers were working in concert with the others, their claws and tails whipping across their enemies, leaving deep gashes.

To his surprise, Gregor saw that some of the gnawers were wearing armor and had something affixed to their claws and tails. One particular example of this emerged from within a seething mass of ants. The figure was spinning wildly, throwing bits of bugs everywhere it went. As the spinning figure broke from the rest of the ranks, Gregor suddenly caught sight of its face. It was Ripred, his forehead still marked with the X-shaped scars. But the enemy forces had started to encircle him. Gregor remembered the formidable rat saying something about 'starting to crack' when he was outnumbered four hundred to one.

"It's Ripred!" Gregor shouted to his digger acquaintance. "We have to get to him. He's surrounded!"

The digger didn't move. It trembled, frozen, at the sight of the battle.

"What's the matter?" Gregor asked it.

The digger's head shook, its tentacles swaying left and then right.

"Don't worry. One last battle, and we'll be safe behind friendly lines. Do you remember the weapon I used when we were fleeing?"

The large mole looked over its shoulder, and Gregor saw its tiny little black eye looking at him.

"I have another, better one."

Gregor pulled the submachine gun out of his backpack, loading the magazine and undoing the bolt-cover latch. He had 30 rounds of hollow-point ammunition loaded, and there were still four spare mags of it left. Even after hand-loading the bullets for his handgun, he felt confident he could stand down most threats.

"C'mon, man," Gregor said, patting the digger on its side. "After this next charge, we're going to be home free. I'll keep you safe. We can save our people down there."

The digger finally regained control of itself. With one final shake of the head, it shed its shivers and shakes. Giving a high-pitched hoot, they launched into battle, skipping down the stone bleachers and then leaping into a mass of ants. Gregor squeezed the trigger carefully, targeting the enemies behind the digger or on its sides, where it wouldn't be able to reach. Everything in front of the long claws was shredded into gooey confetti the mere second after it came into range.

The hollow points were even more destructive to the insects, the bullets expanding within the ants and destroying the soft innards that had once been hidden behind thick exoskeletons.

The bees were worst off. Because they attempted to attack in swarms, Gregor could fire a burst without really aiming each shot and eliminate an entire swathe of them, the fragments of one projectile continuing on through multiple corpses. Exoskeletons were truly less adapted to the projectiles that Gregor was sending at them, even though they were just a pistol caliber. He knew that something like a riot shotgun would have an even better time against the bees. In front of a gun, they were just larger and slower birds.

With the combined destructive force of his guns and the digger's ferocious claws, they managed to cut right through the thickest part of the enemy and to Ripred's side. The large rat was too engulfed in the Rager spirit to notice Gregor's return, but the forces fighting to defend Regalia had seen and heard him.

"It's the Overlander!" shouted some voice.

"The Warrior," a squeaky nibbler's voice declared.

"The Overlander!" A harsh cheer rose from the troops of the warmbloods. Suddenly, without any further action on the part of Gregor, the ants and bees started leaving at double-speed. Gregor fired what he had left left in his gun at the fleeing insects, getting a few of the last ants and bees before they scurried into their impossibly small tunnels.

"A retreat?" Gregor wondered aloud.

Ripred had slowly stopped spinning, probably to keep from collapsing from the dizziness.

"Gregor?" Ripred asked.

"Ripred, it's me," Gregor responded, sliding off the now-static digger. "What's going on?"

Ripred turned to Gregor.

"You've got to get out of here. The Poison forces aren't in the business of retreating. They fight to their last."

"Hi to you too," Gregor said sarcastically.

"Are you still a goddam pup, Gregor? They're clearing the field so they can use something else!"

Gregor didn't understand what Ripred was so angry about. He had returned, had made the enemy flee - he had found his place again.

Ripred looked stepped towards him and looked like he was about to say something harsh, but shouts from the men who had started to approach them split the wary silence that typically followed a battle.

"The firebugs! The firebugs!"

The scene turned into chaos, this time as the forces behind him turned and ran, diving into some distant trench line far behind him.

A few bees had returned, but this time they seemed to be towing something through the air - something attached to them using what looked like spider silk. Their payload was a single firefly, but not at all like the other shiners he had seen. This one was larger, about ten times as much. But what really made up the space was its abdomen, flashing bright red and swollen into a far more circular form than the rest of its body.

"They took a shiner and made it produce another kind of chemical. It burns on contact with the air. If they drop one of those on us, this whole place will go up in smoke!"

Ripred was uncharacteristically worried. Part of it probably had to do with the fact that they were far beyond the range of a trench.

"C'mon then, let's go," Gregor called to the older rat as he turned to the digger. But the digger had stopped moving forever. A froth came out from its mouth, its tentacles limp in the dirt.

"No good," Ripred said, shaking his head, "She was dead the moment two stingers hit her."

"What?" Gregor couldn't understand. The digger knew she was going to die? His words of encouragement must have been the worst thing to say.

"It's not going to matter in a few seconds. Their fire spreads fast."

Gregor turned to look at the approaching firebug. It was quite high up above him. He didn't think he would be able to reach it with the pistol, but he might have a chance with the longer barrel of the M3.

The conditions were perfect, other than the distance his round would have to travel. The air currents were negligible, the humidity felt rather low. The target was moving slowly. Gregor had been trained to visualize distances with his eyes, and estimated maybe 70 yards to his target: the pulsating glow of the firebug. The .45 ACP was slower and heavier than other bullets, but that meant it would keep its energy over a distance. But it also meant that the would have to aim his shot to include a drop.

He would be aiming at the firebug with a lot of hopes and prayers. He waited for the last second, and then waited one second after that.

"Gregor!" Ripred called, but Gregor was already pulling the trigger.

The round zipped through the air, puncturing near the end of the firebug's abdomen. The buzzing of the bees got angrier for a split second, and then the chemicals leaking out of the firebug were exposed to the air and ignited - setting the whole group of flying insects up in an explosion.

A cheer rose up again from his entrenched allies. Gregor had beat the unbeatable enemy.

"I've certainly read about guns, Gregor, but never saw one shoot until today," Ripred said, wincing. "Or heard one. How about you tell me the next time you're about to explode things in my general vicinity."

Ripred had a point. The hard stone walls of the cavern exacerbated the already grand problem of shooting a gun indoors. Even now, the _crack _of the shot was still echoing through some distant nook of the arena.

Ripred held his paw out, tightly clenched.

"I would have offered a handshake, Overlander, but I just got my nails done," his mentor said, showing Gregor the shaped blades that had been affixed to his claws.

"In any case, I'm surprised you finally showed up. Luxa had sent the message the very week after old Vikus kicked the bucket."

"Vikus died?" Gregor asked, astonished. The old diplomat had been a major force for peace, and had watched his back when it came to making his time in the Underland as best as being a prophetic hero would allow. After the stroke, Gregor didn't seriously believe he could have lived that long. But hearing about it was a different thing entirely.

"Yeah, an entire month ago. Luxa waited every day for a week at the foot of that staircase under your Central Park. You didn't show, so she asked the moles to send someone once a day."

"Wait, an entire month? I only got this message yesterday."

"What?" Ripred looked genuinely surprised. Just then, a scream of terror from the trenches split the air.

"Firebugs!"

Gregor saw that telltale red glow, except as many as twelve filled shiners were bearing down on him. Even if he became as accurate as humanly possible, that wouldn't be enough time to kill them all while they were within his range.

"Shit, Ripred, we're going to have to run this one," Gregor said.

Ripred turned and started to sprint on all fours across the soft, blood-stained moss of the arena's floor.

"Who taught you to swear like that?" Ripred shouted over his back.

"Good ol' Gunny," Gregor shouted back, in surprisingly high spirits given the fact he was facing almost certain death.

He was still hundreds of yards from the nearest trench, and the firebugs were coming ever closer. He wouldn't make it. But maybe he could give the people behind him a chance.

Gregor stopped, his feet skidding in a patch of slick lichen. He brough the folding stock of the aged gun to his shoulder.

Aim, fire, boom. There went the closest one, small fragments of burning carapace showering around him.

Aim, fire, _boom… _The next one would get too close no matter what he did, so he decided to fire another burst. Just as he thought the firebug would drop over him, a blurred ball of golden fur struck the leading bee. The new arrival was much larger, and thus could crush its thorax with one claw before the bee lifted its stinger. The group carrying that particular firebug went out of balance, eventually crashing into a wall.

It was a bat. Gregor had wondered where the fliers had been. The flier dove fast, before leveling off inches above the ground, on a course to pass right by Gregor.

"Overlander!" the bat called out. Gregor couldn't place the voice immediately, but he soon recognized the voice as Aurora's. Luxa was bonded to the golden-furred bat, but her back seemed empty right now, so he understood the signal. He was to jump onto her back as she passed him. Gregor got a running start and then leaped as soon as he heard the beat of wings.

Somehow, he ended up on Aurora's back (probably with a little of her help). She immediately began to climb up into the air.

"The firebugs head straight for Regalia, after they immolate the army at the arena. We must end them here."

"I hear you," Gregor acknowledged, then reached into his backpack for his extra pairs of socks. The submachine gun was for the firebugs. The socks were to protect Aurora's sensitive bat ears.

"What?" she asked, taken aback by the sensation of cotton stuffed in her ears.

"It's protection, against the noise." Fliers had extra-sensitive ears, so he hoped he wouldn't be shooting too much.

He would have to steer by pushing either left or right with his legs, or by pushing down on Aurora's head or lightly pulling on a patch of her fur. It was something Howard had told him about - a code for when a Killer rode a bat that couldn't hear.

With the aid of a bat and his rager reflexes, taking out the firebugs was now trivial. He fired single shots at the big fleshy targets from all sorts of angles. Dives were difficult because the angle of descent affected the bullet path, but he remained generally accurate. Another great move he found was hanging upside down over a group of bees and firebugs. The buzzing insects lacked defenses from above. Turning, diving and climbing, Gregor relied on the clicks of echolocation to aim. This was even better than swordfighting on top of a bat, and Gregor knew that humans armed with swords and riding with fliers were some of the most dangerous forces in existence.

The dozen firebugs were eventually destroyed, and Aurora wouldn't let a single straggler go.

"Information travels fast in their hives. It is best to limit that."

"Hello, Aurora," Gregor said, jokingly. It was starting to become a trend to have everyone skip their greetings with him.

Aurora remained silence. Perhaps his sarcastic tone wouldn't as well-received here.

The bat dropped him off unceremoniously where he had leapt on, letting him pluck his socks from her ears before flying off back towards Regalia and the palace.

"What's up with her? And where's Luxa?" Gregor asked Ripred, who was shaking off the dust from the trench and had just got done barking out orders to a detachment of humans.

Ripred looked at Gregor with a blank look. Looking at the expression closely, he realized that this was the face Ripred rarely shared. It was the look of somebody under a lot of pain, but with the duty to pass it on to others.

"She can't fight anymore."

"Is that why you're in command?" Gregor asked, "Did she become a pacifist now, like Hamnet and Hazard?"

There was another schizoid moment between the two of them. Ripred's worn face switched expressions, as if he couldn't decide on how to feel or what to say. Finally, he settled on a familiar mocking snarl.

"She's blind, Gregor," he spat, before turning away, his weathered face twisting into a bitter smirk. "Blinder than a bat."'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note:
> 
> Sorry to leave you on a cliffhanger.
> 
> The next batch of chapters are going to be longer and cover a lot more.
> 
> Things are better than they seem.
> 
> Now, the warrior has returned.


	10. Coming into View

"What?" Gregor asked, stepping aside for a moment to let a group of diggers gather around the fallen mole that had carried him here.

Ripred was still looking away, feigning impassivity.

"I don't need to repeat it. You heard what I said."

"But..."

Gregor couldn't speak anymore. Luxa was blind? Nobody had told him about anything like that. He had come as soon as he had heard the Underland called, but it wasn't good enough. He sunk to his knees, his legs suddenly too tired to stand.

"She hasn't found out how to echolocate, either. Which means that she's been confined to the upper levels of the palace. For her safety."

"For her safety?" Gregor echoed, not yet absorbing the truth.

"It happened during an ambush. She was visiting the Font, a few days after we decided you'd be a no-show. No one thought anything of it, because the spinners were still holding their front."

Ripred paused, peering down at the kneeling Gregor.

"No one could have predicted the existence of the Buzzers, the bees. Luxa suddenly became the first defense at the Font, driving off a swarm of them at the cost of most of her guards. As soon as their defense was down, the cutters emerged and took most of the rest. We've never seen these kinds of ants before. They don't cut like the jungle ones."

A messenger came for Ripred, staring unabashedly at the sight of the legendary hero.

"Her Highness is requesting a strategy meeting with all of the military representatives. The warrior, erhm... the Overlander is to be denied access."

"Well, you can tell Luxa that I will attend only after Gregor here is dealt with," Ripred said, his voice less spiteful than before.

The messenger nodded and ran off towards Regalia, dodging between the many soldiers already headed in that direction.

"Hmm, where was I?" Ripred asked, inspecting one of his claw in an attempt to appear nonchalant. "Oh yes, the matter of Luxa's blindness. As I said earlier, it was an ambush. And one of the new types of cutters includes a small little thing the size of one of the Overland's dogs. Small as it may be, it spits a poison with great accuracy. It took just one lucky shot, and the citizens of Regalia now have a blind queen for the first time in generations."

Now that he had the full story, the weight of reality pressed even harder against Gregor. But just as he felt himself being dragged further down, he felt something pushing him back up. It was anger, red and hot inside of his head. Soon he was standing upright again, his height just shy of Ripred's.

Ripred looked at the silent, but standing warrior before him. Then he turned his head.

"Rage is all well and good, Gregor, but you have to realize that being good at fighting won't save everything. We've both had our own personal tragedies that raging didn't save. You might be angry now, but imagine what Luxa feels. She's the person that's hurt here. She and her people. You're nothing but a myth from a decade ago to a lot of them. Don't let any of it go to your head."

As Ripred spoke, Gregor felt his body loosen up again. He remained standing, but he felt the weight again, and stronger than before. From one rager to the other, Ripred understood how to disarm Gregor's instincts. And despite saving the army in the arena, Gregor did agree that he was still little more than an outsider again.

"Now that you've calmed down, let's get the troops back to Regalia. Even though Luxa is angry now, I expect she'll want you in her presence before the day is through."

Using a combination of officers and shouted commands, Ripred managed to organize the forces into neat columns as they entered the tunnel to Regalia. Some of the groups were just for one race, while others mixed from across the allied forces.

"Where are the crawlers? And the spinners?" Gregor asked.

"Occupied in the defense of their own territory. The spinners are all but defeated at this point, but the crawlers have managed to use guerrilla tactics to survive."

"Are the bats like that, too? Aurora is the only one I've seen."

The passageway suddenly ground to a halt, as a group of six diggers came through. Everyone tried to press themselves into the wrinkles of the stone walls, giving the diggers healthy space. On their backs lay the corpse of the female that had taken Gregor all the way from Central Park to Regalia.

Gregor ran after them.

"Wait, wait!" he called. The group stopped in unison. They inspected Gregor with their tiny eyes and by sampling the air currents using the star-shaped bundle of tentacles on their nose.

"What was her name?"

One of them gave off a series of wheezhes, peeps, and hoots that seemed unpronounceable. Gregor tried to remember it, but the sounds made no sense to him. A voice rang out from ahead in the tunnel.

"Her name was Light-under-dark."

Gregor tried to peek around the massive bodies to see who spoke. But he didn't have to, because the speaker had clambered on top of the diggers and was skipping across their backs, stopping to respectfully rest his hand on Light-under-dark's body.

When the lithe figure finally came into view, Gregor saw the unmistakable black hair and green eyes flashing in torchlight.

"Hazard?"

The teen nodded, and they looked each other up and down. Gregor had been six years older than the Halflander, but ten years had made their physical shapes very similar. Gregor was actually just a bit shorter than Hazard now, but his frame was wider built, while Hazard's wiry muscles and long arms reinforced the image of some sort of mountain climber.

Hazard held a hand out to Gregor. They hadn't been too close back in the day, so it was understandable if he just wanted to shake hands -

But Hazard suddenly pulled the handshake into a hug.

"I am glad you're here, Gregor. They have dearly missed a fighter like you. And she has missed a friend like you."

Gregor could tell that Hazard had followed his father's wishes and wasn't a warrior, because the only weapon he had was a dagger, its sheathe tucked into the waistband of his pants. He thought he could recognize the jeweled hilt and crossguard.

"It is Solovet's dagger. It was entrusted to me by Vikus, in the case that I may not evade fighting in my own defense."

"Ah, Vikus," Gregor said. He had almost forgotten that he had died. He would not forget the kindness the old man had showed him, and his example for the pursuit of peace.

"Worry you not, Gregor. Vikus died in his sleep. It must have been a relief, after the onset of a new war and the pain of his condition."

Gregor nodded in agreement. Strokes were difficult to recover from, even in the Overland.

"Ah sleep, that sweet cousin of death," Ripred interjected, "Also known as the state I'll be in if you two play catch-up all day. We have places to be, Hazard. Gregor can find something to do for the next few hours."

Hazard and Ripred sped off down the corridor, and Gregor had to jog to keep up. As they ran past the lines of soldiers, a cheer went up, led mainly by the humans, although a few of the younger rats seemed to join in.

"The Overlander! The Victorious!" they shouted, some of them reaching a hand out to brush him as he passed.

"Where's the cheers for the Peacemaker?" Ripred asked sarcastically. "And what's this 'victorious' business? I've seen you put on your ass more times than I can count."

"He hasn't died yet, no matter the odds,"Hazard noted solemnly, "And that's victory in the Underland."

They soon reached the outskirts of the city proper, and the place seemed more dense than ever, especially when the haze from the burning fields drifted over and hugged the roof of the cavern. Living things seemed to be everywhere - the wounded being carried to field hospitals, the dead carted off in covered wagons.

In the smog below, lines of tents were interspersed with dug-in trenches. From his distance, he couldn't tell if the people laying down in them were dead, or sleeping.

"The enemy is attacking Regalia _en masse_ first, because they understand that it is the best-defended place in all of the known Underland. If Regalia falls, there will be no walls for the rest to hide behind anymore. They could chase down any of the others at their leisure."

Hazard explained more of the dynamics of the new alliance as they entered the city through the raised porticullis, nodding to the digger and human forces station that guarded it.

"The enemy outnumbers any one of us. Everyone in the alliance has tried and failed to fight by themselves. Following our victory at the arena, a counter-attack might be decided upon during the War Council. I question the wisdom of that, as there has never been a successful assault against the ants."

"I heard something about the enemies. I guess they aren't just the cutters." Gregor said.

"It's a gathering of poisonous and venomous creatures. The cutters of the jungle are now aided by the twisters. If that wasn't bad enough, these new giant winged creatures have also joined in with them. None of them will communicate with us. All they do is kill."

Hazard looked weary, and Gregor realized the Half-lander could have been another Underland. His childhood had been lost in the Jungle, and his time in the palace may not have been any more comfortable than the steamy overgrowth of his birthplace. Still, Hazard tread lightly upon the street, his head still held high. He was surviving.

The streets were less packed than the camp outside. It seemed like Regalia hadn't been breached like in the past war. Ten years seemed good enough to restore everything. Stone slabs had been installed to mend the tears from the last conflict, and Gregor could still see children playing in the side-streets. With that being said, the smoking fields dampened the mood. The firebug bombing must have gone through on the other side of the city, just inside of the larger structure of walls.

Gregor had never gotten used to being a minor celebrity above, and he certainly wasn't accustomed to his level of popularity in Regalia. It was more than admiration for a war hero here. The looks on people's faces approached reverence. They would cry out in the streets and bow deeply. Some people wanted to rush to him and touch him, or grab his hand, but a force of Regalian soldiers formed a diamond-shaped phalanx around their group.

"Jeez, I wasn't expecting an honor guard," Gregor said.

"It's more than an honor guard," Ripred said pointedly, "The Poison forces supposedly have spies in all the races. All it would take is one stab..."

Gregor gulped. He was never one to lose himself to fear, but, the dangers of a hostile populous made him nervous. At least these citizens would not likely be attached to explosives. They didn't seem to have many of those in the Underland.

The smooth walls of the palace was well guarded by a row of fortifications on the ground, and multiple groups of soldiers.

"It's nice to see that all the soldiers can get along," Hazard sighed, "Although it is for the purpose of more warfare."

"Soldiers have often gotten along. It's the kings back home that continue their conflicts," Ripred said. But his voice wasn't harsh. He seemed nicer around Hazard, maybe because of the respect Ripred had for the orphan's father.

They waited while the pulley-operated platform descended.

"So, where are the fliers?" Gregor asked again, "You never told me back in the tunnel."

"Many of the bonded are dead. The non-bound and the bond-breakers vanished off somewhere."

Interrupting his shock, the thick metal platform finally arrived, hitting the ground with a sound of shaking chains. The three stepped on board, with a separate contingent of military personnel a respectful distance behind them.

"What? I thought the fliers rarely broke their bonds? They ran away?"

Ripred growled, a rare sign of frustration. Gregor realized he had come to the Underland in the middle of things, and Ripred was perhaps not the most patient person to catch up on.

"It's result of trickery by the Poison forces. Some of them went mad, and some dropped dead on the spot. The fliers who had never bonded, such as their queen, have flown off somewhere where no one has been able to find them."

"Isn't that a major issue for the upcoming offensive?" Gregor asked. It went against a lot of tactics doctrine to attack a superior force when you were down on manpower and ability.

"Each side has lost things in this war. But in the Underland, the counter-attack is as necessary as the defense that precedes it. Kill or be killed, my boy."

And with that, Ripred and Hazard headed off, Hazard nodding his head in a perfunctory good bye. Gregor was left standing at the intersection between hallways. Unlike his earlier visits, no one had appointed a guard or escort to guide him. The people around him hustled and bustled, sometimes a nibbler or gnawer, but more often humans, with papers gathered in their hands or parcels strapped to their backs.

He felt alone again, and the the thoughts about Luxa started. The thought of her, blind, without even the ability to echolocate her way in the endless dark. And the bats, all but extinct in the Underland. Regalia hadn't been breached, and yet Gregor felt like this was the closest they had come to collapse. If humans and bats could not bond to each other, neither would be able to thrive. They relied on each other for protection. With a blinded queen and disappeared fliers, the Regalian army was weaker than ever before.

He had started looking around for the relief room on this floor, when a clawed paw suddenly touched him on the shoulder. Gregor felt a brief tremor pass through him before he realized who the paw belonged to. It was Lapblood, the rat who had sided with Bane and journeyed with them to the Cradle. The trip had been hard. She had lost her mate and her will to live, but they had bonded over their similar conditions and the hardships of the quest.

"I knew I smelled an Overlander around here. You should really get that fixed, you know. The gnawers and the humans may be bonded now, but you'll be less identifiable as the Overlander that way."

"Lapblood?" Gregor asked in disbelief, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm part of the gnawer's delegation, but I wasn't invited to the war meeting."

Lapblood looked much the same as before, but Gregor noticed that, just like Ripred, she had flecks of gray fur throughout her coat. Her coat also seemed more lustrous and smooth than the last time he had seen her. In fact, all of the gnawers near the capital had looked well fed, albeit stressed by the war.

"You're looking good," Gregor complimented.

"Is this some sort of Overlander custom? Pointless niceties?"

"Yeah, it's called 'courtesy'. Just showing people that you care," Gregor explained.

"My, my, the Overland must be such a cozy place," Lapblood joked, but then inspected Gregor's face more closely.

"But as cozy it may be, you look like you've been chasing the more dangerous places."

"What do you mean?" Gregor asked.

"Your darkened skin may cover many of those scars, but the marks are clear enough for those who look. It seems reckless for a veteran of one bloody war to go off and try to die in another one."

"It wasn't about trying to die," Gregor said, "It was about making a difference. It was about doing things that mattered."

Gregor hadn't realized his justifications for enlisting had changed over time, but Lapblood clearly disagreed nevertheless.

"You haven't had enough of fighting? Perhaps war is a lot harder to deal with when the battlefield is your own home. That's what I was telling Sixclaw, and then he goes off and joins the army."

"How does that work?" Gregor asked, "An actual army seems like it goes against all the things gnawers believe."

"An entire race may change. It's a long story," Lapblood said, "And not one I feel like telling in some hallway. It involves you, and it involves Henry. Or at least the memory of you two."

It was the first time Gregor had heard Henry's name in a while. He had been a royal traitor, a prince who sided with King Gorger to seize power and end the conflict. Henry had died after his own bonded flier, Ares, rejected him and saved Gregor instead. Gregor couldn't understand how the gnawers would possibly care about Henry after his death, seeing as they thought little of him when he was alive.

And he wouldn't find out, because another person accosted him in the hallway. It was Miravet, sister to Solovet. She was aged and wore the same look of much of the royal lineage, but she also had a certain rough-hewn temperament that reminded him of the old quartermasters he had seen at military bases. Lapblood excused herself politely at the sight of her.

"Ah, Gregor, I have been looking for you ever since Ragknit complained about the smell of Overlander. We need to get you fitted for the upcoming campaign."

"But..." Gregor tried to explain that he was only here for three days, and that he had to be back or else his mom would practically go crazy. But Miravet's firm hand guided him up some stairs and to the very same supply room that he had been given his first set of armor.

"You have certainly grown, Overlander. But what say you to Solovet's old plans for your armor? Still a fan of blackened attire?"

Gregor's preference for armor had shifted within the past few years to the contemporary military form: a few metallic-ceramic plates in a harness over strategically important parts of the body. The idea of wearing a set of armor like the Regalian's still seemed weird to him.

"I'm not sure what I like, but I trust your judgment."

Miravet stopped gathering materials for a moment and smirked, but then returned with the tape measure. She approved.

"I will need the gear removed before I can begin," Miravet said, and Gregor dutifully shed his backpack, the belt that held his ammo pouches, and his various sheathes and holsters.

Miravet studied the gear for a moment, then the smirk returned again.

"It seems like you thought more practically about this visit than those previous."

"I got a note from Luxa, that said they were in danger, and that Vikus was sorry. I came prepared for the worst."

"A functioning musket has not been seen here in a long while," she explained while she measured Gregor's arms, legs, and torso.

"Solovet was never able to stockpile the correct alchemical reagents. We held a sizable amount for a time but many are too corroded to fire, even with the powder and musket-balls in the museum."

"There's ammunition in the museum?" Gregor asked. "I don't remember seeing anything like that down there."

"There is a secret area that Vikus wished to keep hidden, lest it fall into the wrong hands. The location was revealed to Queen Luxa and myself on his deathbed."

Gregor fought the urge to move as Miravet measured the thickness of his left bicep. He wasn't a bodybuilder or anything, but it wasn't like he slacked off when it came to maintaining his strength.

"Will you show me where the stash is?" Gregor asked.

"Perhaps, if ever I may convince my current client to cease his fidgeting. You were much calmer as a boy."

Gregor remained silent and sulked, letting his mind explore the problems facing him while Solovet finished her measurements. He was expected on the campaign, which meant not only more fighting, but extended fighting. But at the same time, he had less ammunition than he had enemies. In an extended rager fight against a group of insects, even hundreds of bullets might not do the job. He would need another source of ammunition, and some kind of melee weapon. He liked his knife, but a sword would serve him better out in the field.

"Try this coat of my invention. It is an adapted form of standard mail. The nibblers alchemists discovered new ways to make a stronger, lighter steel."

Gregor knew the basics of metal alloys, the combination of different metals and ingredients to create results much stronger than the sum of their parts. The hauberk that Miravet gave him covered him from his torso to his knees and was made of greenish-grayish ringlets of steel. As he moved his arms, he found that he wasn't losing too much flexibility.

"And I expect you shall be wanting a sword," Miravet said, bringing a selection of blades out. "Or do you prefer the knife?"

"I'd take a sword. The knife is only for special circumstances."

Miravet drew the Ka-bar knife out of Gregor's sheath, inspecting it from all sides, before saying "It is well-made, but lacks artistry."

"As you have grown taller and stronger, I have chosen to offer you longer swords than those you used as a child. Have you practiced the blade at all since last you fought for Regalia?"

"No, ma'am," Gregor said, reflexively. He felt a little guilty about it, but the fact was true. He hadn't handled anything longer than his forearm since leaving the Underland.

"Should you want it, Mareth oversees all of the training in the New Undercroft below."

"What's the New Undercroft?" Gregor couldn't recall a training area underneath the palace.

"The diggers have been busy in expanding the defenses" she said, tersely. "Now, Overlander, if you have satisfied your curiosity for now, I would ask that you select your weapon."

Taking a closer look at the swords, it was clear that they weren't general issue. For one, each of them was made to different specifications. They ranged from short, stubby swords to thin rapiers with ornate handguards. There was even a curved sword in the lineup, but it was single-edged, which didn't lend itself to Gregor's frenzied fighting style.

Gregor picked out a sword with a steel blade the width of his palm, doubled-edged with its metal glowing a dull grey. The hilt was wrapped in something black and leathery, ending at a boxy metal pommel. He saw Miravet nod as he made his decision.

"A sword of utility, for a man of experience," she noted. "And you've brought powder weapons from the Overland?"

"Would you like to take a look at them?" Gregor asked. Miravet probably found stuff like this interesting.

Miravet studied the double-stack M1911 and its holster, and then looked at the old submachine gun and its simple design. Both of those had served him well so far, but he didn't know what Underlanders thought of firearms.

"If you prefer the small one on your lower back, I can construct a sheathe on your hip for the oldest weapon."

Miravet's expression showed how much she disapproved of its unwieldy length.

"Don't worry about the length," Gregor assuaged, "It folds down to be compact."

Gregor showed Miravet how the wire stock could be pushed into a compact form.

"Impressive," Miravet said, "In that case, you could use additional armor on your chest. Allow me to retrieve some."

She went off to the next room and returned with the oldest rat Gregor had ever seen.

"This is Ragknit, one of the few gnawers who knows anything about this sort of thing."

Ragknit bowed, and then spoke with a grizzled voice.

"And this is the Overlander, then?" she asked, "He looks nothing like it sounds the stories we tell around the fire."

Gregor cocked his head. Gnawers told stories about him around their campfires? Was he considered some kind of scary monster?

He wondered how many pups had been coerced into eating raw fish because 'the big spooky Overlander' would come get them otherwise.

Ragknit cackled when she saw the look on Gregor's face.

"Mainly good stories. Ripred is quite insistent on that. Stories of your pardoning of the pup Pearlpelt, your quests with Twitchtip and Lapblood. If the gnawers here weren't easily forgiving, you wouldn't find us in the very home of the killers, bonds we may be."

That was a relief to Gregor.

"She helps me work leather, and in turn, I help her make the clawpoints and tailspikes," Miravet explained, helping him strap into plate armor that covered his torso and back.

The breastplate was mainly smooth, but intricate spirals had been engraved above the hips and shoulders. It wasn't too tight, but Gregor could feel its rigidity and was glad for another layer against the various bugs that would try to kill him.

Ragknit and Miravet talked in hushed tones as they tried to work out a leather holster that could sit on Gregor's right hip. Between Miravet's scissors and Ragknit's sharp front teeth, they soon had a passable holster that would fit the gun.

"It needs more work, but that sort of task is best left to the apprentices," Miravet said, wiping her hands on her apron. "The rest of your armor will be made ready for tomorrow."

Gregor nodded, then was left standing in the room, while Ragknit shuffled off and Miravet took her equipment with her. He repacked his bags, but lingered in the room. Gregor didn't have anywhere to go, even though it was reaching 2 P.M on the surface and he was starting to feel the first impulses of hunger.

Eventually, Miravet poked back in, shaking her head solemnly.

"Ah, yes, the Queen still keeps you at arm's length," she said. "An attendant will be summoned, until her Highness decides she is finished with her farce." Miravet smiled, the second time Gregor had seen it.

Gregor knew better than to speak familiarly about Luxa or to ask too many questions. He had been gone for too long and had received her message too late to pretend he was still some sort of hero. If Luxa wanted to be mad at him for ditching her, or not returning to the Underland, or even for receiving her message so late, Gregor wouldn't blame her.

She had been busy being a Queen trying to keep peace within the warmbloods while also defending her people from some nightmarish new threat. Gregor felt like all he had been doing during that time was fighting people. And once he had gotten done with the fighting, he had wasted his days drinking cheap alcohol at his parents house and trying to ignore his past.

"Honestly, I can only blame myself for this treatment," Gregor thought.

The attendant gave him new clothes and promised to take Gregor's current apparel to the museum (letting him keep the boots). His visit to the relief room had been private, but as soon as he stepped into the common area with the cleansing pools, he was mobbed by a sizable gaggle of other men. Thankfully, most of them were clothed, having already removed the scent of battle from the arena. He tried to go about his business without seeming too dismissive. He liked the people here.

Gregor found the least occupied pool and hopped in, not undoing the towel around his hips until he was settled into the warm water. His eyes closed as he felt his thighs, sore from riding, loosen up. And then, he remembered the digger that had brought him in. Light-under-dark was her name, and Gregor wouldn't have survived without her. Yet another person who had died for him-

A splash suddenly hit his face, breaking him out of his reverie. Gregor wiped his eyes and looked around, until he saw the source.

"Howard!" Gregor shouted, as he and the now-bearded Underlander embraced in the large pool, awkwardly. Howard had fully matured to be like his father, giant and muscular. But something about him reminded him more of Dr. Parry back in the Overland than some hardened warrior like Mareth or Solovet.

"Gregor!" Howard shouted in return, "How goes it? I heard word that the Victorious had arrived, but could not have expected seeing you down here!"

"Down here?" Gregor asked, "Am I not supposed to be in here?"

"Well, no," Howard said, "There is little space left within the palace, what with the visiting delegations, so even relatives of the Queen and stellar surgeons such as myself must share with the others."

Howard nodded graciously at an old, wrinkly man who joined their circular pool, and Gregor followed suit. The curmudgeon just rolled his eyes and reached for some of the unscented soap. It was nice to see at least _someone _that didn't care that the Overlander was here.

"They expected at least _you _would have been granted the privilege of using the private royal facilities."

"But why?" Gregor was stumped.

"Many children and pups have grown in the past ten years listening to tales of your deeds. Many artists have created works which extoll the virtues of Gregor the Victorious. You are more like royalty than me at this point, and my father is Governor of the Fount and my cousin is the Queen herself."

"Wait, you're saying somebody painted pictures of me as a kid, journeying around, almost dying everywhere? Sounds like a pretty lame story."

Howard guffawed.

"Not just paintings. There are engravings, epic poems, carved stone figurines, and even a stage play," he explained. "Although that particular dramatization was poorly received."

Gregor had to close his eyes again. It seemed like leaving the Underland for ten years had only made his problems worse. Now, more than ever, he would bet that people had even higher expectations of him.

"Ah, geez," he bubbled into the water, sinking down to his mouth in the soft current.

* * *


	11. Indulgences

Once Gregor got dressed and got his gear back on, he stood by Howard in an alcove, watching the late-afternoon traffic pass by them in the hallway. His attendant was standing by at a respectful distance, seemingly waiting for some new demand.

"Have you not yet eaten?" Howard asked incredulously.

"Haven't got the chance," Gregor said.

Howard turned to Gregor's attendant, and commanded him to bring some food for the Overlander.

"Make no mistake about it, this is Luxa's doing," Howard said, "Only her commands could force such neglect from the servants."

"This current guy only came after Miravet found out."

"Truly? It is well that so many more of the Queen's kin support you than not," Howard said, leaning against the stone wall. "Although Stellovet may still hold a grudge."

"Oh, yeah," Gregor said, remembering the rest of Howard's family back in the Fount. "How are York and the rest of your family doing?"

Howard gave a grim smile.

"The Fount is less protected than Regalia, but the water cannot be poisoned, so we have had little to worry about other than the occasional group of bandits or cutters. My father is doing well, although he claims his age is starting to show. The girls are getting along happily, although Stellovet suffers from a lack of eligible suitors at the Fount. Hero is a foreman in the iron mines, but he covets the role of Governor. I myself am inclined to abdicate if it comes to it, as that sort of leadership has never appealed to me."

The servant returned, with bread and some kind of cheese.

"Ahh," Howard said upon seeing the cheese, "That's a sight that'll soon be rare."

"What's wrong with the cheese?" Gregor asked, taking his food appreciatively from the servant.

"The fields still burn. The shiner's treachery has severely hindered our growing capacities. We've been culling our cattle for at least a week now. The abattoirs are beginning to run out of space for all the meat."

"The fields have been burning for a week?" Gregor suddenly felt very guilty about the piece of cheese that he had wolfed down in a couple of bites.

"The attacks started with the buzzers carrying these... metamorphosed shiners to our fields," Howard explained, "Our flame-fighters struggle to allow one last harvest all the way to the end of our fields. But no matter how successful they may be, it is understood that most of the cattle would be unable to survive with so little land and food."

"Then you guys are headed for a famine!" Gregor said, his voice raised. His voice was a little too loud, though, because several passer-bys stopped to stare at him. Howard gestured for them to move on.

"There is plenty left in our stores, and the rivers still run full of fish. If the offensive forces the Poison out, we shall restore our capacities, as we have many times before."

"Yeah, I guess Regalia was built for sieges," Gregor remarked. "But do you know any more about tomorrow's offensive? No one's been telling me anything."

"I am little more than a chirugeon at the hospital, Gregor. Hazard tells me some of the things that he picks up at those council meetings, but all I know is that it involves reclaiming the boundaries of warmblood territory and reconnecting supply lines with the spinners and the crawlers. But let us talk no more of war and suffering, how are the princesses?"

Gregor explained to him how Lizzie and Boots were coming along, with Boots now older than he was the last time he was in Regalia.

"I don't suppose she could make a visit? The crawlers would rally around her like no one else."

"Not likely. My mom's mad enough that I decided to come."

Despite humbly calling himself little more than a relative of the Queen, Howard was still nobility, and thus had his family's quarters higher up in the palace. Until the summons for dinner came through, Gregor would shelter in Howard's rather stately chamber. They sat in his drawing room, which included a stone table and chair, engraved with geometric patterns. One of his walls depicted a very large school of fish, eyeless but with highly detailed scales and wide fins. Gregor thought a picture of a fish, was better than another engraved prophecy, no matter how gross it looked.

His host poured a smidgen of some kind of spirit into two ceramic tumblers, and handed one to Gregor.

"To health," Howard said, knocking vessels with Gregor and watching his reaction as he took a sip.

It was clear and harsh, and burned going down, but it must have had some herbaceous infusion, because Gregor could taste something other than pure alcohol.

"An extremely rare treat," Howard explained.

"There's also something like this in the Overland," Gregor told him.

"Is is not strange how much our people share, despite being so separated?" Howard mused, then added "Although I can not recommend any more of this for tonight. I expect berrywine will be served at tonight's dinner."

"I can handle a bit more, unless you're saving this stuff for later," Gregor said, holding his vessel out. This new drink tasted just like gin, and he was getting cravings.

"As you wish," Howard said with only a hint of reluctance, pouring out another measure.

Gregor nodded his thanks and they talked more about how Regalia had changed. Each member of the pact had a delegation in the city, except for the spinners and crawlers, who had returned to their homes only days before the routes became unsafe. Before the cutters had pushed out of their lands and into the others, the main threat had been banditry, because the less morally-secure members of the gnawers and the humans saw an opportunity without war.

Until the formation of the war council, it was difficult to persecute bandits, because killing outlaws of another species was politically difficult. Now, soldiers from the fliers, nibblers, gnawers, diggers, and humans were occasionally pressed into unified service to protect the most valuable trade routes.

"But where are the fliers? I only saw Aurora earlier today..."

"Oh, my," Howard said, surprised. "Has no one told you-"

"Well, Ripred told me that most of them had flown off somewhere."

"There are at least one hundred survivors with us, although they live in the New Undercroft. I see Nike every other day."

Howard went on to explain the massive expansions created under Regalia by the diggers and stonemasons. It contained much more living space and included a training area, mushroom gardens, and a newly forming set of fortifications. It had started soon after the end of the war, when the humans and the diggers attempted to consolidate the wartime tunnels with the normal access points.

He was midway between explaining this when the sound of scraping and a thud resounded from above their heads.

"What is that?" Gregor asked, sitting up. The hairs on his neck were standing up and his hands clenched into fists.

"The nightly opening of the Queen's chambers. They are sealed when she leaves and opened only when she returns, because she dismissed her ladies-in-waiting after receiving the throne and there is no reason to keep it open, as she refuses to produce an heir."

"Luxa refuses to produce an heir?" Gregor said, with a hopeful tone. He found it hard to hide his interest in her, whether she was a ruling Queen or not.

Howard frowned. He was understandably concerned about Gregor's intentions. He had cautioned him before about becoming involved with Luxa, when he was basically a child.

"It's a serious matter. The royal family was not created to serve itself. Heirs are needed to fulfill the responsibilities of the office when the sovereign becomes unable to. The lack of so much as a consort at her age is unheard of."

Gregor nodded, turning stone-faced. Kings and queens were different down here. It would explain why Luxa had fought in the last war, despite being so young, and why everyone from Solovet to Howard were on the frontlines. The nobility had power in Regalia, but only insofar as they served a useful function in the city's survival. It reminded Gregor of electing representatives, but with far less choice on the part of the selected.

"Also, I would advise not referring to Queen Luxa so casually. She has always been temperamental, but the loss of her eyesight has enhanced the scale of her rebukes."

"I thought she didn't care too much about that sort of thing," Gregor said, glumly downing the rest of his drink. When he looked for more, he realized Howard had already hidden the bottle. Did he know?

"There are... rumblings already surrounding the two of you. The stories from a decade ago grew larger than life. Now that you have returned as an adult, the tales will no doubt grow less and less restrained. I shudder to think of the various bawdy tales that shall echo around the campfires tonight."

The blood rose in Gregor's face. Partly out of embarrassment and partly because of the strong spirits he had just consumed.

"But what if we do wish to marry?" Gregor asked. Even as he said it, he knew it was probably inappropriate to state so strongly.

Howard took a deep breath in, held it, and then exhaled. He still looked very serious.

"First, I must tell you that you two would have my support. But then I must add that it is unclear whether it could happen. Much time has passed and the two of you are changed people. In addition to the issue of affection, opinion would be divided at court."

Before, Howard had said the Council would be concerned about him and Luxa. Even though they had been nearly wiped out in the last war, it seemed like Luxa was still limited in some ways by the rest of the nobility.

There was a knock at the door, and the servant assigned to Gregor entered.

"Her Highness the Queen formally requests the attendance of the Overlander to dine at the High Hall this evening, in addition to the present company," the servant's eyes flashed meaningfully over to Howard.

Gregor checked his watch. It was almost 7 P.M, Overland time.

Howard was already standing up.

"No need to worry about formal wear," he said, buttoning his tunic. "This is just a farewell dinner for a select few of her court. In case they do not return from battle."

"Ah," Gregor said, glad that he wouldn't have to juggle multiple pairs of clothing. As he stood, he realized that the spirit he had consumed with Howard was much stronger than he thought, and there was the beginning of a wobble in his step.

"It'll be fine, as long as I don't have any of their berrywine"_, _he thought to himself as they made their way to the High Hall and the dining rooms situated within.

The High Hall was still breathtaking, a lengthy space opened up to the cavern above. The structure was made to receive bats, but Gregor had a feeling it didn't see too many of them nowadays.

A small group had gathered outside of the dining room, broken into groups of twos or threes who spoke in hushed tones to each other. As Gregor and Howard joined them, a few bowed and came to take both of his hands, what passed for an enthusiastic yet formal hug among the Regalians. Others stood, only nodding slightly in his direction.

The group asked him various questions, about his strange hand-cannons, about his chosen profession (Gregor surprised some of them by revealing he had been a warrior in the Overland as well), and even about his family.

"I'll tell you, sir, the crawlers have dearly missed the Princess," one diplomat told him, "Not a day passes when they do not ask about her whereabouts."

Eventually, though, they ran out of things to ask Gregor, and respectfully went back to their own conversations. Finally excused, he turned to look for Howard, and saw him chatting with Hazard.

"The meeting went as well as expected," Hazard said, "Though Luxa made sure to express her displeasure at being left out of the general wartime council."

"Perdita is commander of the military, and such is her right. Rarely has a king or queen held that position," Howard said.

Howard's arms were crossed.

"At times I wonder whether we should gather those who care about her and make clear our feelings on her current attitude."

"They call that an intervention in the Overland," Gregor interjected, "And it gets pretty messy."

He was thinking of the T.V shows were people would break down sobbing and screaming at each other. That wasn't really how they resolved problems in the Kent household.

"I could hardly blame her," Hazard said, defensively. "The crown is a heavy pressure, and she lacks guidance. I'm sure Luxa will grow to meet her new challenges."

From what Gregor knew of her, he thought Luxa was already pretty grown. She had to deal with a lot of death around her, and the responsibilities of being an orphan Queen. After Vikus passed away, he could see things getting even more difficult, sure, but Luxa had been nothing but mature (beyond her years) when Gregor had known her. It had been frightening at times to his twelve year old self, but Gregor felt like he had moved past fear.

Finally, the doors opened, and the guests moved in, although they remained standing, waiting for Luxa to arrive before the meal could start. Nerissa filtered in after them, looking much older than before. Her face was gaunt and she had bags under her eyes, but she looked to be in good spirits.

"Queen Luxa has announced the seating arrangements," she said, unfurling a tightly-wrapped scroll. She directed the various people to their seats, starting with the head of the table, where her own seating would be, in addition to seating for her family and her two bonds. Perdita was close to there in her role as general, and the other ministers followed behind. Gregor could recognize some of the faces as being present at major occurrences in Regalia.

Gregor was put right next to the unoccupied foot of the table, opposite the minister of public works and to the left of the minister of fisheries. The presence of the Overlander seemed to be a special surprise, because they were both more excited than they should have been, sitting that far from the Queen.

The room went silent when Ripred entered, but only because his arrival heralded the arrival of his bond, Luxa. She was behind him. Her head was turned, talking to some servant outside of the hall, but once her business was complete, Luxa came into view.

As soon as he caught sight of her face, Gregor fell in love with the Regalian queen for the second time in his life. He hadn't realized how much he had missed seeing her. That brief glimpse as she arrived the room was better than even his wildest dreams.

Her silver hair was longer than he had ever seen it before, worn loosely and descending far past her waist. She was wearing an intricately embroidered gown, puffed at the shoulders, but with loose sleeves that hung below the wrist. She kept her hands together, her posture straight and haughty. When Gregor looked at her eyes, he feared that they would be horribly corroded, two globes of twisted flesh.

Instead, her eyes were now a pearlescent gray, the same shade as dulled silver. Even so, as Luxa took each slow, definite step into the room, he felt like the queen was aware of his gaze. Ripred had said she didn't know echolocation, but Gregor still felt some of the pity he held for her vanish. The determined set of her jaw and the reserved expression on her face indicated a greater strength than he had imagined when he heard of her injury. But it also reminded him of when she had been her most frightening, such as the times when she was with Henry, or when she declared war on the gnawers.

"Good evening to you all," Luxa said, her voice stiff. "We will be joined by Lapblood and Heronian, from the gnawer and nibbler delegations."

Heronian took a spot closer to Hazard near the head of the table, while Lapblood slinked in later, and secured the spot next to Gregor.

"Good evening," Lapblood greeted the ministers around them, who were less enthusiastic about having a rat join them.

As she passed Gregor, she whispered,

"Been drinking again, have you?"

Gregor gulped. He forgot that gnawers all had a highly sensitive sense of smell. Lapblood could have smelled it on his breath, or the remnants in his sweat.

The food was then brought out, starting with a course of grains and the Underlander's treasured greens. As they ate, the farming minister announced how the fires in the fields were almost put out, and a new season would soon start 'as soon as the soldiers departed'.

In a quieter voice, which only Gregor and his neighbors could hear, the fisheries minister complained about not being considered important 'just because his responsibilities hadn't gone up in flames'.

"If you are so unoccupied, you might consider building the fish farms promised to us," Lapblood said, her voice saccharine-sweet. "Seeing as your portion of the river remains untouched by the cutters."

The fisheries minister shut up after that, and the man from public works seemed rather timid, so Gregor was left with little to do other than hear the conversations from further up the room in between tidbits of talk with Lapblood.

Hazard was recounting the day's events from the perspective of the diggers. They had sensed a rush of cutters through the tunnels underground and organized a defense at the arena. Joined with the forces of the other warmbloods, they were able to hold their own and preserve the arena as a staging ground.

"I trust that those entrances have since been obstructed," Luxa said, her plate of dark green leaves and boiled grain virtually untouched. Watching her discuss affairs of state from the other side reminded him that, after ten years, he couldn't say he knew her anymore. Gregor had caught glimpses of the serious, all-business facade of Luxa, but the image was much stronger now. With a sparse few sentences, she investigated one section of Regalia, identified its problems, and then ordered an action to resolve it.

This wasn't like some old monarch from the medieval age, gathering wealth and power independent of their kingdom. Queen Luxa was a commander and administrator more than a royal, and had been running an entire civilization for years while Gregor felt like he had mostly been kicking around in dusty bases between very short periods of intense threat. Her entire method of dealing with things and her reserved behavior reminded him that they had become adults of very different sorts since they last met.

But perhaps most notably, she didn't say a single word to Gregor the entire meal, even going as refusing to mention him by name. Was she really that angry?

The last course was a simple fruit tart of some sort, but what gained the most attention were the tall bottles of blue liquid being served alongside it.

"Berrywine?" the farming minister asked. "Her majesty is too kind."

"It is custom to share a sampling from the royal cellars on the eve of battle," Luxa assured.

"Although many of us here shall not venture forth, there are a few among us worthy of this distinction."

Servants came around to place the bottles evenly across the table, but did not pour the wine into the tall glasses. Instead, it was the job of the people at the table to pour for the guests of honor and themselves. The minister of fisheries poured a brimming glass for Gregor, and more moderate portions for the people around him. And although he wasn't too excited about it, the minister also poured a ration into Lapblood's earthen mug (glass and gnawers didn't mix).

Once everyone had their own measure of wine, Howard raised his glass. Curiously, everyone remained sitting, even while they raised their glasses in response.

"For time!" he exclaimed, and everyone brought their glasses to their mouths.

Gregor took a deep gulp before he could stop himself. The strange blue liquid had gone down smooth, but he could feel a tell-tale burn climb back up his throat soon after.

The misstep was noticed by those around him. In particular, Gregor saw the farming minister at the end of the table swoon and lean back. He couldn't understand why everyone had suddenly started to stare at him (except Luxa, for the obvious reason). Howard's brows furrowed as if he was thinking about saying something, but he stayed in place, maybe because the ritual shouldn't be broken.

After the group regained their composure in absolute silence, they set the glasses down on the table, and their vessels were refilled to their original amounts. Gregor's portion was resupplied to be just as substantial as before, but he promised himself to stick with sips like the rest of them. He didn't want to look like some sort of drunkard, although he had gotten the impression that alcohol was so scarce that no one could have that leisure in the Underland.

Each guest gave their toast after that, going in a clockwise pattern around the table. Gregor really tried to pace himself with the sips, but he could feel the telltale fuzziness boil up within his brain. He realized that he would have to come up with his own toast, which was becoming increasingly difficult with each sip.

He wracked his brain. Most of the people were making simple toasts, to health and time and plenty. The fisheries minister made some rhyming toast about the currents of the river and the pattern of fate or something, but Gregor still hadn't come up with something.

"Can you guys skip me?" Gregor asked, "I'm still thinking."

At the end of the table, he could see Howard and Hazard shaking their heads in unison. It was probably some kind of party foul to try and pass. If he had to pick quickly, there was only thing he could think of.

"To victory!" Gregor shouted, surprised when the previously silent room echoed him with a cheer.

"Wha-" Gregor wanted to ask, but he was interrupted by the entire group as they tilted their heads, lifted their glasses, and drained every last drop of the berrywine. The fisheries minister waggled his eyebrows at Gregor from behind his glass, signaling him to follow suit. It looked like they would drink the entire glass on certain toasts.

Knowing that he was stepping closer to danger, he shrugged and drained his cup, trying not to enjoy himself too much. The berrywine was way stronger than typical wine back home, and he was really feeling the leaden weight set in his gut. He could handle it up to this point...

The cups were refilled again and the toasts resumed. Lapblood mentioned friendship, the public works minister mentioned stability, and so it continued until the toasts came to a man with an eyepatch, one of the few he had seen in the Underland. Although the man's face bore a few scars and his facial hair was somewhat grizzled, there was something aloof about him that told Gregor the guy was a big deal (or at least thought he was one).

The man noticed his gaze, and frowned. Gregor wasn't quite sure what got the guy's goat, but he didn't avert his gaze. Maybe Gregor was feeling a little feisty, but the eyepatch dude was also looking to start something

"To temperance," he enunciated, his tone clear and level but his eyes flashing in Gregor's direction.

The words didn't really affect Gregor. It sounded like the guy was just jealous or something, and Gregor had learned how to ignore people who only talked big after a few months in the Marines.

Even still, the rest of the room shifted uncomfortably after hearing it. The last few toasts were made hurriedly, and then it was Luxa's turn.

"I would have wished for victory, but it seems there are some in our present company who trust themselves more than the covenant of the Royal Family."

Gregor cringed. Was Luxa going to join that nobleman in shaming him?

"But never mind that," she finally said. "If victory is someone else's wish, then there is only one left for me. Let us toast to Light!"

At Luxa's words, another cheer rose up and the room attempted to finish their drinks. The entire ceremony had come to weigh heavily on their stomachs, and many could not complete their portion. Gregor fought through his uneasy stomach and drained his container, placing the glass upside-down on the table.

The few that joined Gregor past the finish line shrugged and placed their vessels just Gregor had done, albeit cautiously. Howard was still halfway through his serving but Hazard also ended up copying Gregor's flourish. It took a few minutes, but soon all of the dignitaries and cabinet members were also done. Some of them followed Gregor's Overland-style method of placing their cups down, but a few followed the example of the man with the eyepatch.

With the ceremonial drinking of the libation complete. the Queen dismissed the group of flushed-face nobles away. At first, Gregor thought she would stick around and actually greet him, but a retinue of guards arrived and she disappeared off with them (along with Ripred). By the time he managed to get to the door, they had already gone around a corner and down a staircase, no doubt to return to her chambers.

Although some of the ministers and dignitaries were too inebriated to walk straight (and thus were led away by servants), a significant amount remained in the High Hall, looking down on torchlit Regalia and talking in lowered voices. Some of them would be headed into danger the next day, into land controlled by the enemy alliance of poisonous beings. Once again there seemed to be two groups forming among them, one near Gregor and the other with the nobleman who had challenged him.

Nerissa saw Gregor looking and approached him.

"Do you not recognize him? He is from Troy, and was a commander during our defense of Regalia. Because he survived the counterattack, he was able to rise to the level of general, and now commands the forces of Troy."

Gregor took another look at Nerissa, the dark purple bags under her eyes and her abnormal thinness demonstrating her chronic lack of health. It had been a long time since they last met, but the berrywine had him confused.

"Hi," he said, waving hello to the princess who was mere feet in front of him.

Nerissa smiled, the first time Gregor could remember thinking something was funny down here this visit.

"Greetings, Gregor," she said, returning the wave with a spacey look on her face. "I should have started by reacquainting myself, but I had to warn you about a rivalry with Sulte. The man is dangerous."

"Note taken," Gregor returned, only slurring his words a bit. "But how have things been?"

Nerissa joined him in looking at the firelit city below, and didn't say anything for a while. When she spoke, her words came slowly, and she paused frequently, as if to consider her words carefully.

"The years have been difficult, but perhaps less difficult than those that came before. The warmbloods, crawlers, and spinners abide by the treaty, yet groups of highwaymen have arisen along trade routes, bolstered by the knowledge that there are no more lines of battle. The largest issues have come from the cutters, who worsened from a possible to threat to an active force that threatens to overwhelm us."

"They threaten to overwhelm you? I thought everyone was allied and was sharing their armies?"

"The mind of a cutter is very distinct from ours of the warm blood, but they understand how to target the weaknesses of their enemies. By allying with the buzzers and the twisters in greater numbers and with stronger poisons. They bring a deep fear with them. Some, such as the fliers, have completely vanished, driven away by some imperceptible force. Many have died and many more suffer from wounds that we cannot mend."

"Like Luxa?" Gregor asked, "Like what happened to her eyes?"

Nerissa grimaced, looking twice as exhaused with a frown and furrowed brow.

"She had been hurt for some time before that. The sudden death of Vikus and her blinding by the spitters are only parts of her suffering." Nerissa said, speaking somewhat cryptically.

Gregor sighed. He didn't like the idea of Luxa suffering for so long, and especially felt crummy when he heard about the longstanding cutter problem. If he had just been in the Underland-

"It pains you as well, does it not?" Nerissa said aloud, as if she was realizing something. "Do not worry, she-"

"Ah, how similar the two of you are," a voice interrupted. "Despite the hopes of certain nobles in the Underland, your childhood infatuations still persist."

A hand clapped Gregor on the shoulder and he turned to see Howard and Hazard, who had sent the few remaining ministers away.

"Ripred always told me that it would be the case, despite my disbelief," Howard said. "He wagered that your shared moodiness would preserve the bond, long after you became adults."

"Shared moodiness?" Gregor scoffed, "You should see some of the other guys in the Overland. That's moody. I'm just a little... enthusiastic."

"So says the man who ran from Regalia on his first night there, directly into the claws of the gnawers," Hazard noted slyly. "The same 'warrior' who spared the Bane, against all force of prophecy."

"How do _you _know about that, Hazard?" Gregor asked. "I thought people would be trying to forget him after all he did."

"When they tell the story of Gregor the Overlander, the orators spare no expense," the younger man explained. "You make a fine poetic figure, the way they tell the story. A virginal boy from the doomed Overland falls to us, and brings his young naivete with him. Eventually, though, he is too pure for our world. He returns back to his home, never to return again, traveling to a land literally called 'Virginia'."

Gregor frowned deeply as he thought of the implications surrounding the story, but one thing came to mind immediately.

"Wait a second, do they actually use the word 'virginal' to describe me?"

"Not always, I must admit," Hazard said. "But the sentiment remains the same. But things are starting to change."

"What do mean?"

"The hour has become quite late, Gregor," Howard stepped in. "And you will shall need more time to prepare for the march. Why don't we-"

"Just let him finish his thought," Gregor said.

"I am sure you heard your new moniker of Gregor the Victorious," Hazard said, quickly. "That is because you defeated our enemies and returned to the safety of the Overland. The commoners see you as a selfless savior who brought peace at our greatest time of need. And once again, you have arrived at the very cusp of our defeat. You might become second only to Bartholomew of Sandwich at this rate." Hazard's face was slack, but there was a certain excitedness to his tone.

_"I guess he is also on the 'Gregor and Luxa forever' bandwagon,"_ Gregor thought.

Howard finally managed to interrupt the two by stepping between them.

"Enough of that, Hazard. Is it your goal to fill our newly returned friend's head with nonsense about the common man's tales? Those are shallow matters."

Howard looked at Gregor for support, but Gregor didn't want to put Hazard out.

"It was really interesting," Gregor said, "But it does feel weird to hear people calling me 'the Victorious' for something that happened when I was twelve years old."

"Too right," Howard agreed, "Perhaps so many tales are woven about you precisely because you left the Underland. I am sure that their wild fantasies will die out the longer that you spend here."

"Wait," Gregor said, "Is 'victory' a special word in the Underland?"

The three relatives of Luxa shared an uncomfortable glance that Gregor was in no state to interpret.

"It is hard to say," Nerissa eventually answered. "But victory is a term rarely used."

"Yeah," Gregor agreed, "You guys are constantly on the edge of getting fucked."

The group winced at the swear but Gregor continued on, ignoring their reaction.

"You know what the really screwed up thing is? You all don't really use the word 'life' either. Youse all only talk about 'time'. That's some grim shit. Things are so bad down here than you can only think about getting more time, not a better life."

Nerissa and Hazard could ignore the cursing or at least weren't affected by it, but Howard was peeved.

"Hush now, Gregor," he said. "I love you as a brother, but your vulgarity may reach more ears than ours."

"Aw shit, I'm sorry," Gregor apologized, before realizing he had cursed again.

Howard managed to laugh that one off.

"All right, all right. It is time for you to head to bed, I would presume. Be sure to drink plenty of water before sleep, lest you go into service with a headache."

Gregor agreed goodnaturedly, tottering off with the help of an assistant assigned to guide him to his quarters.

"And the stairs here, Overlander," the man suggested once they walked for a few minutes through a series of side-halls and roundabouts.

The guide followed him patiently as Gregor headed up and then knocked at a stone door.

"I wonder if this scheme was well-thought," he whispered to the maid who appeared when the small stone door opened.

"The Queen has introduced several rules to maintain propriety during the private audience. One, the Overlander must face the wall and not look for a moment at her Highness. Two, neither of them shall cross the line of red thread we have placed in the room, or else the Queen has commanded us to intervene. And Three, the Overlander must not move from a seated position in the chamber."

"A strange set of precautions," the guide wondered.

"I am only acting out her commands," the chambermaid said apologetically.

"No harm at all," the guide agreed. "They seem so much like children, after all."

* * *


	12. Tearful Reunion

Gregor's eyes were closed, even though he knew that wasn't technically one of the rules. He was nervous and off-balance, and closing his eyes seemed to make sense in his head. Even if he let his eyelids open, he wouldn't be seeing anything, just the stone wall he was facing. The thought that he was in her chambers held a certain daring connotation that excited him.

The thought of a clandestine nocturnal rendezvous was a little too much to explore deeply, so he let go of his thoughts with a deep sigh. Inadvertently, this sigh also revealed a person behind him. The mental image wasn't clear enough, but the height and gait resembled what he had seen in the dining hall.

"Luxa?" he asked hopefully.

"Yes," she replied, although softly and without much emotion in her voice. "Either you used your echolocation to find me, or my ability to move silently has suffered alongside my vision."

"It was echolocation," Gregor admitted. "But wait, how are you? I only just heard about Vikus, was he-"

"We all knew it was coming, Vikus most of all," Gregor heard Luxa say. With each word, he couldn't help but visualize the echoes of her voice reflecting off the soft edges of her body and the confines of the stone chamber.

"Just because you knew it was coming doesn't mean you can't feel sad about it."

"Feel sad?" Luxa scoffed. "Hah, Overlander, I see that your time above has kept you nice and soft. We never have had the luxury of feeling 'sad', as you put it. Especially when it can be predicted. We accept our losses, and move on."

The scorn could be heard in her voice. Harsher and more bitter than Luxa had been as a child but something in the voice also sounded hurt, as if a sob was perpetually being held back.

"Wait, Luxa, why are you so-"

"Enraged?" she asked. "Perhaps because, in the span of a month, I have lost goodly measures of my sight, power, and wisdom. My allies grow ever limited, while my enemies abound in endless quantities. You are the one out of line, arriving late and expecting a warm welcome. What say you in your defense, Overlander? How much more should I have pleaded in my message to you? Did Regalia have to lose so much before you would arrive?"

"Hey," Gregor said, trying to calm her. "I didn't get the message until yesterday."

Luxa was having none of it.

"The great hero, who would steal the terms of the royal toast directly from our family motto: _Lux et Victoriam_. The so-called Victorious, the hero who no doubt wished to enhance his legend by appearing only at the very precipice of defeat."

Luxa's voice stopped suddenly got faint, and Gregor realized that she had turned to face away from him.

"Gregor, the Overlander who allowed the crawlers and the spinners to be overrun, and the fliers massacred and driven off into the unknown lands before he acted. Congratulations, Hero. Do you ask for the Queen's favor?"

Gregor noted that she didn't include her blinding at the Fount in the list of grievances against him, even though it had happened at the same time as the other things.

"I don't know why it took so long," he said, "I was in Virginia, hundreds of miles away, but I came as soon as I heard."

Gregor had mentioned Virginia to her, a decade ago. Maybe she was remembering it, because the room returned to silence for a moment. But her voice returned, just as biting as before.

"And for how long will the Overlander be gracing the dirty, miserable Regalians with his presence? Just long enough to revive his tale for a new generation? And then back to Virginia?"

"I can only stay for three days," Gregor said, waiting for an immediate rebuke. But she didn't respond, and the lack of sound in the Queen's private chambers left him in the dark, so to speak.

When she finally spoke again, her tone was even, without a hint of spite.

"Ah, three days. Only long enough to rid himself of guilt. Before his mamma and pappa bid him return to the upper levels, where the air is so much freer and the life so much easier. I suppose we must seem some kind of nightmare to you and yours in the Overland. Unpleasant to dream about, but of no import in the waking world."

Gregor's fists tightened, even though they were already balled up in his lap. He had promised he would do nothing but apologize, but she was getting on his nerves by bringing up his family. The Regalians had shut him out and blocked all the entrances, not his parents!

"Regalia is a place so wretched," she continued, "That even a poor, fatherless boy may descend and feel better about the conditions of his own bare, sputtering hearth."

"Hey..." Gregor started to say, but his teeth were clenched and he couldn't say anything else. He was starting to shake. Luxa's attacks were getting personal. She had never talked about the lack of money around his family before.

"Even so, do not think I neglected to notice your extreme reluctance to return. Each time you were summoned, Vikus and Ripred had to resort to trickery or treachery to ensure you remained. How your parentage must have hated us so, that they absconded to a distant place, far away from any of our scouts. And you, not sending so much as a letter. Did your mamma take away your parchment, too?"

Gregor knew that if he spoke, the words would be full of anger. He didn't want to be like that around her, the Warrior or the killer. He wanted their words to be tender, like old friends at the least. But the Queen was only emboldened by the lack of response.

"You do not deny this?" she said, stunned. "Cowardice, Overlander. This is cowardice, plain and simple. Your mother is a coward. Your father is a coward. You are a coward, who waited until the guilt of hiding became too much to bear. A coward, Greg-"

"You've said too much, Luxa." Gregor said, rising to his feet, breaking one rule but still facing the wall. "You can call me a coward all you like, but you can't put that on them. Do you know how many more people live in the Overland?"

He wasn't shouting, but his voice was raised and he could feel each utterance ringing in his throat as his echolocation reframed the room and the person behind him. He knew that he wasn't in her bedroom now, but some ancillary chamber for receiving guests.

"It matters not to the Underlanders how many live above. It is not our land," Luxa said brusquely.

"Bingo! You hit the nail on the head with that one. There's seven billion humans up there. Do you know a number like that down here? A billion is, like, a thousand times squared. Enough people die in the Overland in a year to fill Regalia to the ceiling, many times over. The people in my country know that there is only so much a single person can do. My mom only sees you all like another one of those far-off places. My dad views you all even worse. This is the place where he was starved and tortured for years. Can you blame them for keeping me away?"

"Yes, I can blame them," Luxa shot back. "I care not how you frame it. You are clearly not raised from lovers of duty. Your people love themselves too much and rarely stop to think of the whole."

"Oh, really? Just because they would prefer not to have their son die in some foreign hole in the ground for people they don't know and troubles that don't affect affect them? You're the one not thinking this through. Did you ever stop to think what _I _might feel?"

"Yes, I did, Overlander," she admitted, "I thought again and again for several years about what you thought. I asked Vikus, and Ripred, and Nerissa, and scores more about what you might feel. I wondered why things had to end the way they did. But then I stopped. I had more important things to worry about."

"Oh, wow," Gregor said sarcastically, "More important things. I get it. You don't give a fuck about me until you can get me begging at your feet."

He heard a gasp from around the corner. Someone had been listening in, unnoticed by him.

"You would dare?" Luxa asked Gregor, her voice deep with anger.

"Yeah, I would dare. You spend ten years not sending a single message, and then when I finally get a note, I come back to find out I fought in a war at the age of twelve that didn't actually create peace, and the Queen I fought it for all of a sudden hates me, even though I'm practically a stranger, 'cause the last time we met was ten years ago."

The echoes faded to silence, and Gregor sat down again. He would have stormed off, but he had no clue where he would go in the halls of the palace.

"You may not be wrong, Overlander, although your tone leaves much to be desired. It has been very long, so we must be like strangers to each other," Luxa agreed. "Very well, then. Let us treat each other as little more than newly-met acquaintances."

She was using a frighteningly sweet voice, as if her words had been drained of all true emotion. As Gregor heard her, his feelings also disappeared. It was the opposite of what he had dreamed of. Instead of tenderness, she had greeted him with a facade of stone. And now, she was asking that they forget they ever knew each other. It hurt him to hear it, far more than he thought he thought a word could injure him.

He couldn't speak anymore. Not because he was too angry, or too surprised, or too sad. There were no words in his head anymore. He had tried to push away his dreams of the Underland all his life. Some of the dreams were unpleasant, but as time went on, he remembered more of the good things. But now, the greatest good he had known in Regalia was declaring herself cut off from him. No more anger, no more frustration, and not even a chance at love.

"You have no objections, then?" Luxa said, her voice quavering.

There was no answer from him. Words did not come easily to Gregor, especially after months with only his family and a few strangers to talk to.

"Ha, ha, ha," she pretended to laugh. "A pleasure to meet you, stranger from the Overland. I hope you do not meet a premature end on the morrow."

Gregor wouldn't have been able to say anything, but another awkward silence was replaced by the grinding of the stone doors as Ripred barreled into the room.

"What is going on here?" the rat asked. His snout was in the air, sniffing.

"The two of you, I swear..." Ripred had taken in all of the scents, sights, and sounds from the room. He immediately knew what had gone down.

"Look, I'm not the kind of person to deal with personal messes," Ripred said, gesturing to their surroundings. "But this was definitely a bad idea. On Luxa's part, for organizing this."

Gregor sighed but Ripred's ear cocked up.

"Oh, don't think I didn't hear you just now, Gregor. You drank too much to begin with, and then you come in here like she owes you something. You're both a mess. Everyone should go to sleep and try to forget this ever happened."

Servants appeared from their various alcoves and got to escorting Gregor out through the same side passage while Ripred lectured Luxa. The servants led him down the stairs while his head reeled, and he knew he couldn't blame it entirely on the ceremonial drinking.

The gnawers and the humans were no longer at each other's throats, but that was because they were busy being attacked by poisonous swarms of cutters. Luxa was mad at him, and now wanted to give him the cold shoulder.

The male servant from before opened his door and left without any further words. Maybe the outburst against Luxa had cost him some points with the people eavesdropping on them. But he wasn't interested in that right then.

All of a sudden, he was struck with the idea that he was in fighting somebody else's war again. The enemy was incomprehensible and vicious, and everywhere he looked around base, the security was full of holes... He was one surprise attack away from death, but maybe that was nothing new.

Special forces training prepared you for times like this. He could fight and sneak his way through most obstacles, could train the most inexperienced men into guerrilla units. He could assassinate targets or rescue hostages. He had been built to keep working, even when the weight of the entire world was against him.

He had as much at stake to lose as he did before. Maybe even less, now that his family had settled in at the farm in Virginia. The place he was most needed turned out to be an underground civilization beneath New York City, not back at home with a family that had become independent after he left.

At most, a few thousand lives were at risk here, far more if you added the fliers, gnawers, and crawlers but it wasn't exactly like millions of lives counted on him. It was something he was conditioned to ignore so that he could get the job done.

The thoughts were too much, so Gregor dove under the spider-silk sheets on the guest room's luxurious bed. The display on his watch showed that it was just after midnight in New York. Lizzie and his dad were probably really worried about him, but Ripred was probably in no mood to help him get a note out to them, and he didn't know who else could use the network of gnawers and rats to reach the Overland.

He really wanted to do nothing but sleep.

* * *


	13. The Very Same

His internal clock woke him up at 6 A.M. The room was almost entirely unlit, except for the hints of a glow at the doors. Nothing in his environment could have suggested that it was the right time to get up, but keeping track of his sleep was an operational necessity back in the military.

He didn't feel any of the usual sign of a hangover, thankfully, but he did feel a little dry. After a few glasses of water and a few splashes on his face, he felt ready to face the day, purified from the scarcely-remembered shame of last night.

When he poked his head out of the room, there were no guards in sight. However, a young teen was waiting anxiously, twisting a flat cap in his hands.

"Greetings, Sir Gregor," he said.

"Good morning," Gregor returned. "Are you waiting for me?"

"As soon as you have made ready, I am to take you to the armory."

The kid looked at the floor for a moment, shy.

"It is at Miravet's behest," he added.

Gregor nodded and found the clothes that had been prepared for him. They were a simple tunic and breeches, but the fabric was silken smooth against his skin, a good sign if he was going to be marching with a full load of armor strapped over it. Chafing was a classic concern for soldiers everywhere, so the finer these bottom layers were, the less his skin would be rubbed raw by the weight and movement.

The young Underlander led Gregor through the still-crowded hallways, dodging speeding messengers and columns of armored men as they went level by level down to Miravet's armory.

The workshop wasn't deserted like before. There were a surprising number of gnawers at tables, some of which had leather aprons tied around their backs. As he was passing by, Gregor saw that they were being fitted with specially-shaped metal cones that covered each claw. Those must be the 'clawpoints' Miravet had mentioned earlier. And blades were being attached to their tails, sheathed in metal scabbards.

Miravet and Ragknit were supervising the armory from the rear, joined by a nibbler that no doubt supervised the alchemists. Gregor's guide backed off with a respectful nod, and the royal armorer herself approached him with a flat expression.

"I trust you are now well rested, Overlander. Your armor and kit have been prepared, if you'd be so kind as to follow me."

Beyond the workshop tables and the racks of basic armor, a finer collection of creations were stored on dummies, sometimes just one piece, but more often they were entire suits of armor. Gregor recognized the breastplate he had selected earlier but now it was accompanied by the rest of a set.

The lightly engraved chest piece was accompanied by plates that were attached at the bottom to the gap between his torso and the long pieces of leg armor. The plates for his arms were short, only enclosing the space from the wrist to his elbow.

The gaps underneath the armor were protected by the hauberk of riveted metal rings that Gregor had seen earlier, although he wondered what had been added to the iron to give the steel its strange green hue.

He could get the padded jacket and the mail on by himself, but he needed help on the rest of the armor. The breastplate was accompanied by a backplate, with two cords holding the piece together on the sides. Miravet secured the fasteners on the side, then strapped in the leg pieces and the arm pieces with buckles.

"How is it?" Miravet asked once the last piece was fastened on Gregor.

"Feels light," Gregor said, not able to keep himself from hopping in place.

The metal-ceramic plates soldiers carried in the Marines were thick and dense in order to stand up to the velocity and penetration of a bullet. His current armor felt lighter than his usual load, but was meant to protect against slashes and stabs, so he didn't want to test out how it stood up to a gun.

The leather harness went on over the torso pieces, with the scabbard on his left hip, the M3 gun on his right, and the pistol secured in the holster over the armor on the small of his back. Gregor noticed there was still one spot on the belt left open, in the middle above his groin.

"What goes here?" he asked.

"The knife," Miravet said, tying Mr. Cormaci's old knife and sheathe into place just above his crotch.

"...Thank you," Gregor managed to say.

It wasn't a full suit like he had seen on the stone knight at the Met, but he was still more protected than his previous armor, the all-black ensemble he had worn to face down the Bane.

Some times, right before he went to sleep, Gregor had dreamed of a situation similar to this, a time where the Underlanders needed him so much that they would break their silence. Naturally, it would be for some sort of battle so Gregor would be suited up again, in thick pieces of shining metal and he would fight and fight until everyone accepted him. In his teenaged mind, he thought the natural reward, of course, would be a kiss from the Queen, at first just a little something on his cheek. But later, it would become something different. He always felt silly after waking up.

Gregor knew better now. The armor was light and the expectations on him lighter. Although the common people had a lot of ideas about him, it was clear that not all of the nobility were so easily taken with the idea of the Overlander returning. He was more of a guest of necessity but Gregor was fine with being used, seeing what this enemy did to Luxa's sight, after witnessing the horrible poisons that threatened them. He didn't have a deathwish, but he also couldn't let the entire Underland be consumed.

"Well, then, Overlander. We are done here, but I suggest you visit Mareth in the Undercroft. There should be enough time for him to knock the rust off of your skills."

The same teen in the flat cap came and showed him further down into the palace structure, further than he thought existed. The staircases started to appear more uneven, and the walls around them were not the orderly blocks that one might see above. This was an entirely new construction, and it was still in development.

If it was surprising to see the new tunnels the diggers had made, but it was absolutely breathtaking to see the true undercroft once they passed through a series of gates and entered onto its floor. It looked like a massive cavern, at least ten stories high but only visible for tiny distances where the torches were fixed. The few lights weren't enough to see the edge of it.

Compared to the tightly packed palace and the compressed buildings of Regalia, the Undercroft felt deserted. There were still guards posted along the flattened boulevard that marked out the common path, but Gregor couldn't see a single civilian. As they approached the training arena, his page excused himself to return back to the workshops.

The training grounds Gregor were nowhere near as appealing as the arena of old. Whereas the arena had seating and a carefully manicured turf of moss and lichen, the training grounds were dusted with gravel and sand and scattered with straw-stuffed dummies.

There was one element of it that was currently better than the battle-scarred arena upstairs. His old friend Mareth was standing in the center, pacing back and forth in front of an assembled group of soldiers in formation. When he got closer he could see that the soldiers were younger than him, but only by a few years. Maybe they were recruits?

"Remember what you have learned here. It is likely that not all of you will return, and that those of you who come back will be injured and scarred," Mareth said.

"You know this already. After all, you have seen your instructor!" he joked. There wasn't any outright laughter, but the group seemed to stand a little straighter.

"Maybe when this is all over, they'll rename us from 'killers' to 'cutters'. After all, the enemies will be driven to the Uncharted Lands, and we'll have cut our way to victory!"

Mareth raised a hand at the last phrase and a cheer was echoed among the young soldiers. They were dismissed and marched in formation out of the training grounds, back up to the Palace area.

Once they were out of sight, Gregor realized he had been crouching behind an outcropping of stone, trying not to be recognized by the departing troops. He stood up sheepishly, and Mareth saw him easily, even in the torchlit gloom.

"The Warrior does indeed return! Or perhaps we should call you the Victorious?"

"Just Gregor is fine," Gregor replied. "The Warrior died with Sandwich's sword."

"Ah, but what is this I hear about you being a warrior in the Overland?" Mareth asked.

_"News travels fast around here, even without the Internet,"_ Gregor thought.

Mareth was standing on a prosthetic leg but was notably not relying on a crutch anymore. He must have gotten used to his missing leg. Even still, he had not lost a certain respectful nosiness into his favorite Overlander's life. Gregor welcomed it, though. Alongside Howard, Ripred, and Miravet, Mareth was one of the few authorities he knew he could trust in the current Regalia.

"I spent the last four years as a professional soldier," Gregor explained, forgoing an explanation of the different branches of the American military and where he served.

"Truly? I had expected you to entirely reject warfare and violence, after your words during the Gnawer's surrender."

"Things changed. And there were worse things for me to become in the Overland," Gregor said.

Mareth stood in silence for a moment and inspected Gregor before him.

"You are certainly not a child anymore, despite the rumors from last night."

"What rumors?" Gregor asked.

"The word is that you and the Queen had a falling out and words were exchanged with inebriated anger. With some cursing."

Gregor winced as the events from last night played out in his head.

"I wish I could apologize for that," Gregor said. "Cursing isn't such a bad thing in the Overland, and I didn't mean what I said."

"Well, both you and the Queen have been known to regress into anger," Mareth assuaged. "In any case, time heals all wounds. I understand that you are departing later, to join the offensive against the Poison?"

"Yeah," Gregor said, "I need to get up to speed on swordfighting."

"Very well," Mareth said. "I am not a rager nor a dual-wielder, but Perdita and Ripred have talked enough strategy with me to let me observe in a useful way. Shall we try the bloodballs?"

The cannons were rolled out, just as before. Gregor could faintly remember the blood-balls from long ago. Right before going on a quest to kill the Bane, Gregor had gone up against the bloodballs and hit all fifteen out of the air. The feat was rare, and became proof that he was a rager, born to fight and kill in a berserker's trance.

The cannons were not gunpowder operated, but rather used springs to launch the wax spheres filled with a red dye. Once Gregor gave the signal he was ready, they would fire two cannons in succession, until the loads were complete.

The sharpness of the rager had never left him, even though he hadn't seen combat for a while. With his sword at the ready, Gregor felt a bit of uncertainty. He had been using firearms until just recently, and a swords were clearly different weapons.

But his vision came apart as soon as he heard the _thump _of the bloodballs launching. His sword danced in front of him in a figure-eight pattern, and Gregor saw that he only had to use the broad tip of his swords to burst each target. The trajectories were clear to him, and it was almost effortless. In fact, he closed his eyes for the last two just to test.

And closing his eyes somehow seemed to be the right move. Because as soon as he turned his perception over to sound, he noticed a large projectile speeding at his head from behind. In a flash, Gregor ducked, swinging his sword to catch the object before it hit him. The clang showed that it was some kind of metal. Maybe a helmet?

But because the tip of his sword was caught in the helmet, he couldn't get the last two balls. He swiped at one and it burst into a cloud of thick liquid, but he had to duck out of the way for the last one, ducking so that it passed overhead and batting at it ineffectually as it sped past him.

"Only fourteen?" a sarcastic voice asked from behind him. It could be no one but Ripred.

"It would have been 15, if you didn't throw junk at me," Gregor said pointedly.

"_Pssh,_", Ripred dismissed. "A real seasoned rager would have gotten all fifteen _plus _one or two pieces of junk."

Gregor could hear Mareth chuckle from his position by the cannons.

_"That's Ripred for you,"_ Gregor thought. _"Always set to take me down a peg. Even if he has to stalk me all the way down here."_

"Before you ask, Overlander, I'm not here because of you," Ripred said. "I was on my way to gather volunteers from the fliers when I noticed someone flailing around on the training field."

The large rat's claws were already outfitted with metal clawpoints and the tip of his tail was covered in metal, no doubt shielding the blade underneath. He really did seem like he was running a last errand just before the battle.

"Never mind him, Gregor," Mareth said jokingly, "You did very well, given the circumstances. I am not the best judge of rager instincts, but-"

"Exactly! You aren't one, but as a rager myself, I can tell when someone is not up to par," Ripred said. "Gregor was a split-second too slow, which has killed plenty of our troops."

Gregor kept a straight face, but his thoughts simmered. He wanted to prove Ripred wrong.

"Bring the extra cannons here," Gregor said, "I'm gonna hit thirty bloodballs in one go."

"I can't wait to see," Ripred said.

Six cannons were positioned facing him in a loose arc. Each salvo would pass him at roughly the same time, but the distance was increased so that he would have more time to react,

"Once the cannons fire, cover your ears," Gregor told Ripred.

He drew his pistol, holding it in his left hand while his sword was held at the ready. The pistol held fourteen shots in the magazine, plus one in the chamber. It would mean fifteen shots, or fifteen bloodballs, maybe more.

In order to fit all six cannons in the arc, they had placed them further away. Gregor thought that would give him some extra time to alternate between his weapons.

He was right, but only partially. Once the cannons fired, he found the trigger would only pull so many times before the balls came into sword range. He shot seven balls total on the approach thanks to the hair-trigger and some good placement, but there wasn't enough time to get all of them. Without any interference from Ripred, he managed to slice twenty of the bloodballs with his sword.

"Unfortunately, that leaves three untouched enemies, and each one of them was loaded with a poison that brings instant death. You're dead, Gregor," Ripred said.

"Never mind that, the Overlander has set a new record!" Mareth remarked. "Twenty-seven will likely stand for a very, very long time."

"Even so, let this be a lesson," Ripred said, "Just because we haven't seen a working in gun in decades doesn't mean you've got another magical power, Gregor. You need to work with the rest of us."

"Of course I'm not going to try and take them all on myself," Gregor thought, but he didn't want to give Ripred the satisfaction of agreeing.

The large rat sighed, and nodded deeper into the cavern.

"We're going to have to cut that training short," Ripred said. "I need to collect ten volunteer bats from the fliers, and the sight of Gregor is likely to bolster their courage."

Mareth nodded in agreement.

"The Overlander seems to be in top form today," the Regalian said. And then added "Especially in comparison to last night's performance."

Gregor's tight frown deepened. He really had screwed up last night, but he didn't want to be constantly reminded of it. It was a lot easier to just focus on the upcoming battle. He had gotten used to the prospect of death and injury more than the prospect of maintaining complicated relationships.

"I tried to get the servants to swear themselves to silence, but I suppose the common people must be very desperate for the juicy details behind your secret nighttime rendezvous," Ripred said.

"It is not just the normal citizens of Regalia who are concerned with those details," Mareth said. "There was much talk throughout the officer's mess this morn."

"Oh, great," Gregor said, and the annoyance on his face grew larger.

Mareth snorted, but managed to keep from breaking out into full-on laughter.

"I'm sorry, Gregor, I do not mean to mock you," Mareth said. "Yet it gladdens me to see that you have not changed overmuch in spite of all of these years."

Gregor's frown disappeared soon after that, and he and Mareth talked about the various changes to their life and how they were doing. It turned out he had gotten married and adopted a few war orphans, but Ripred's hindleg was tapping impatiently the entire time they spoke.

"There will be time for chatting when we return, Gregor," the gnawer reminded him. "The army is set to march in little more than an hour."

They hurried off deeper into the New Undercroft, Gregor promising to return and speak with Mareth before he returned to the Overland.

Ripred's pace on the rough cavern floor was fast, enough that Gregor had to jog to keep up. He was glad he could still run with all of the armor on him.

There was an easygoing silence between the both of them as the light faded from around them and they entered into the less-occupied part of the New Undercroft. Soon, only his panting breath was kept him going in a straight line by showing the path around him.

_"Echolocation must be like riding a bike,"_ Gregor thought. _"Once you learn the trick, you never really forget it."_

The refuge for the remaining Fliers was intentionally hidden, so the path they took exited the wide cavern and entered a series of twisting tunnels. The interior surfaces of the tunnels were uneven, as if they had been scraped out.

They stopped for a breather halfway up a sloping tunnel, leaning against a wide stalagmite.

"It's fine, Gregor," Ripred said. "I told you I usually don't get involved in things like this, but I can practically smell the despair on you."

"What are you talking about? I'm doing as well as possible," Gregor said defensively.

"What's the thing they say in the Overland? The nose knows? It's like that."

Gregor didn't really thing that was a saying, but he let Ripred continue.

"All the gnawers and nibblers can smell it on you, Gregor. You're not a child, but you still have plenty of vulnerabilities. I don't have to be a scent-seer to tell you've been hurt."

Gregor knew it was true. He had problems dealing with his emotions and it was a lot easier to run from them or struggle through them than to actually sit down and _feel _them. He had went from a sensitive boy to a stoic man, keeping each year's wounds inside of himself. The Underland had never really left him, even when he tried to forget, and life seemed to constantly add more troubles.

"There it is!" Ripred said, sniffing the air deeply. "Shame, anger, sadness, and booze."

"I'm sure anyone would smell like that after last night," Gregor replied.

"Truly? One thing you might not know about us gnawers is that we can tell the age of a specific scent. You've got the stench of cheap liquor going back on you for as long as I can smell. The shame on you is especially pungent too, enough that a pup could identify it at a hundred paces."

"So what?" Gregor asked defiantly.

"You don't live as long as I do and fight as long as I do without learning the signs. You've cracked, Gregor. I've seen humans and gnawers with the same problem."

Ripred approached him and talked in a softer voice, his posture as slouched as ever.

"What was it that got you?" Ripred asked. "A suicide mission? Maybe a last stand? Maybe it was an ambush that killed them."

The words to explain the whole situation were right at Gregor's tongue, but he wasn't sure how to explain what had happened to him in Saqiq.

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but you need to know that you're not the only one who has been hurt like this. Things might get better, or they might get worst. But you can't pretend like you're doing fine right now, Gregor. You can't keep doing what you're doing."

"I know, I know," Gregor said dismissively. It wasn't like he couldn't see the problems he had, the emptiness that had risen in him with time, the guilt that he was the one who lived, and not any of the other guys who had been there with him.

Ripred saw through his noncommittal reply and stepped even closer, snarling.

"Are you taking this seriously? I'm not bringing this up just because I'm a nice rat who wants to help a fellow rager feel better after a bad day. If you're bending already, you might break permanently."

Gregor didn't need any light to visualize Ripred's tortured eyes right then. The older rager had been through a lot. His entire family had been killed by the Regalians and he had fought alone for a long time. If it wasn't for his coat of fur, Ripred's body would show far more scars than Gregor's.

"After one too many battles, some humans break just like Hamnet did. They can't handle it anymore, can't pick up a sword without trembling, can't go to sleep without a doctor there to dose them. They get kicked out of their army, and get put to work sharpening swords or polishing boots or some other simple task. But that doesn't always help them. Sometimes, they end up dead."

Gregor knew there was a problem in his own country with warriors and their end-of-service. Unlike the Underland, people were deployed to combat for shorter durations, and rotated back home occasionally. There were chaplains and therapists and all sorts of support systems in place when they were in the service, but the real struggle could happen in the years after someone retired. It was big challenge, trying to find a normal way to live despite being trained for entirely different situations in entirely different places. That wasn't even accounting for the trauma that accumulated there, a collection of bad memories, stressful situations, and nightmares that so often followed them home. Gregor was young, only twenty-two, and yet he felt very tired.

Ripred continued talking even as Gregor went deeper into his memories.

"It happens to anyone in the Underland. Life here is short and brutal, but that doesn't mean we feel it any less than you do. In fact, some gnawers stuff themselves with bad mushrooms to try and forget."

"Does it work?" Gregor asked.

"Never, with a few exceptions," Ripred said, "I'm speaking from personal experience. I told you, there was a few years where I was trying to get myself killed after I lost everything. I fought and fought, but I just ended up with a fearsome reputation and a scar across my face. One day, I realized I had no hope left. I didn't even have the energy to fight off a pack of shiners. I found a promising patch of fungi and practically gobbled it whole."

Ripred's voice was still soft, even as he described each painful detail.

"I hoped it would kill me. Either that, or erase my memory. Instead, I got a stomachache and hallucinated for three days straight. I saw... things. Not prophecies, but I saw and felt things differently than before. I don't want to get into details, Gregor, especially when we still have to get to the fliers. But I wanted to die that day and its only a matter of chance that I lived."

Ripred stopped speaking, as if he realized he had been giving too much information to Gregor.

"My point is: you can't let yourself break. You've got too many people relying on you in the Overland. And I know at least one royal heart that would be destroyed, too."

"What?" Gregor asked.

Ripred tapped the side of his snout with a front paw.

"Like I said, the nose knows. You both can act as angry as you want, but your bodies don't lie."

Gregor was confused for a moment, but then he faintly remembered something. It was during an argument he had with Luxa years ago, when they were tracking the nibblers on the death march to the Firelands. He had been angry with her imperious attitude and harsh commands, and picked a fight that ended in a haze of emotions. But Ripred had taken a deep sniff right afterward. Later, the rager-rat told Gregor he had smelled a deeper undercurrent of affection. He knew Gregor liked Luxa, just from the smell that hung in the air. And the same way, Ripred must have known Luxa didn't really hate him right now.

"The same smell?" Gregor asked.

Ripred said nothing, instead turning and sprinting further up the slope.

It wasn't a definite answer, but the cuirass and mail on Gregor's back seemed to weigh so much less as they continued on to the secret hideaway of the remaining fliers.

* * *


	14. Never Looking Back

On his first journey to the Underland at the tender age of eleven, Gregor had visited the fliers in their own land to ask their permission to take Ares and Aurora on the mission to rescue his dad. There must have been hundreds just in the cavern where he made his request to the flier Queen Athena.

The situation in this cavern was less astounding than the original home. The ceiling was much lower, almost close enough for Gregor to touch if he jumped, which meant there was little space to move around. The clusters of bats roosting upside-down made it so that they disturbed several sleeping fliers before

"Why are they so close to the ground?" Gregor asked.

"This is the most secure location. There are few entrances and it lies near the digger nests, so they would be alerted if anything managed to make it through the Regalian lines of defense."

A voice to their left spoke, and Gregor recognized it as Aurora this time.

"Height availed us not when the Buzzers made their attack," she said. "Those who were not driven mad by the strange cry were overwhelmed by the sheer number of flying targets."

"Isn't it tough down here with no space to fly? How do you get food and water?" Gregor asked.

"Regalia sends aid and protects us. We cannot ask for much more than to be given time."

"And isn't that true for all of us?" Ripred remarked. "Even now that we might be less likely now to find our end on the tip of a sword."

Another new voice joined them, although this time it was from further away.

"Progress is progress," the female flier said.

"Ah, Queen Nike," Ripred said ostentatiously, "In the interest of more 'progress', I have come to seek your answer to the matter we agreed upon earlier."

There was a light thud as the flier dropped the few feet to the cavern floor and crawled over to them. There wasn't any light in the cavern, but it was easy enough to click his tongue lightly and see his immediate surroundings: the warm, sleeping bodies of the fliers all around him and the former princess of the bats moving on bent wings.

"I have approved ten volunteers, as per your request. I would have ventured out myself, but now that I am Queen, I must consider the preservation of my line," Nike said, but then her voice dropped to a whisper.

"Or at least, that is what the remaining members of the pantheon have decided."

"Who are the ten of you crazy enough to come with us, then?" Ripred asked.

Nine flyers gingerly flipped onto the floor. Gregor wondered who the tenth was, until she cleared her throat with a weird hacking sound.

"I will be the tenth," Aurora said.

"Aurora? I thought Luxa wasn't coming," Gregor said.

"Bonds are not required to be in the same place at the same time. Were you and Ares not often separated by necessity?" Aurora said.

"Yeah, but..."

"And regardless of that, I must go where my bond will not," Aurora said, her voice darker.

"The army awaits you at the southern gate," Ripred advised them.

"Will you not join us? The Overlander, at least, could ride," Aurora said.

"We have one or two more things to cover before that," Ripred said. "Plus, exercise would serve us well after the excesses of last night's dinner."

"Very well," Aurora laughed, with a _hu hu hu_ sound. "Run like the river."

"Yeah, and fly you high," Ripred returned, while Gregor felt his face get hot in embarrassment.

After the fliers left, they started their run back up into Regalia, this time without stopping until they reached the stairs that lead out of the New Undercroft.

"What was that about?" Gregor asked, panting for breath.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Ripred said innocently.

"When you mentioned last night to Aurora," Gregor said.

"Hmmph," Ripred scoffed. "It's not so big a scandal. You and the Queen alike are known to be hot-headed. In any case, there are more pressing issues for the people of the Underland."

Gregor had to admit (with a hint of shame) that Ripred was right. He needed to make sure he kept his eyes on the mission. Who would care about the Queen's thoughts on romance when hundreds of soldiers were about to be sent out? At most, it was probably just like celebrities at home: entertaining for some people, but not really mattering in the long run.

He went with Ripred as they followed up on a few last-minute tasks. Each race in the army against held their own commanders, but Ripred was considered a _de facto _tactician and strategist for the entire group, which required him to make the final checks to get everyone in the same spot. Along the way, he also managed to get Gregor's message to his dad and Lizzie sent.

"Let's hope it doesn't take four weeks to get this one sent," Ripred said. "Delays are a common ocurrence, which she would have known if she just asked me instead of trying to keep her note a secret."

"Why do you get so many delays?" Gregor asked as they waited for the note to be transferred using the tree of transmission.

"Rats, like humans, have very big differences in intelligence between their smartest and their most idiotic members. Unfortunately, our cousins upstairs generally end up on the idiotic side," Ripred said.

"A combination of confusion on your actual location, the inherent simple-mindedness of city rats, and interference from ants delayed the message far more than it should have been. In that gap, the Poison forces raided the fliers, enslaved the spinners, and have taken large swathes of land from the crawlers and the gnawers. If you hadn't arrived when you did, Regalia may have been besieged right now."

"Luxa got blinded in those few weeks, too," Gregor said, "If I had showed up earlier. it wouldn't have happened."

"Don't be too sure about that," Ripred responded, "If they were targeting her at the Fount, they could surely have targeted you at the same time. How do you think her mother and father died, even though they were as heavily guarded as two monarchs could be?"

"You're saying I would just have gotten killed if I was at the Fount?"

"Most likely," Ripred said. "Neither you nor Luxa would let anything happen to each other. The enemy would use that to their advantage and trap you both."

Gregor knew the tactic was a valid one. They had used something like that once when his unit was targeting a terrorist cell. A father and son were organizing a unit of men to kidnap government officials. After gaining the necessary intelligence, Gregor's team moved in to seize intelligence and detain the threat. The father opened fire, trying to allow his son time to escape. The son refused to leave his father to die and also picked up a gun. But that was well within expectations, and they both were taken. An attack months in the making was shut down in 30 seconds by predicting that family members wouldn't abandon each other.

Gregor tried not to think about how the cutters would have killed him at the Font, how he and Luxa would fight to the death trying to let the other one get away safely. Is that what a bond truly meant? An all or none scenario?

The nibbler who was managing the communications post eventually told them that they had transmitted the message onto the next post, and so they headed off to the southern gate. Gregor and Ripred rode the platform to the ground floor (along with a few other latecomers) and managed to catch up with the tail end of the farewell parade.

It wasn't really like the parades they would have in the Overland. There were plenty of people lined up on the wide boulevard, but none of them were doing anything that resembled Overlander tradition. Gregor remembered going to a Thanksgiving Day parade back in New York, and it seemed like everyone there wanted to do nothing but cheer and have a good time. Boots was so young at the time that their mom had covered her ears to stave off any damage from the yelling.

The Underlander crowd watching them was silent, standing solemnly by as the ranks of armored soldiers marched on by. As Gregor walked past, some of the eyes of the people watching widened, but only hushed whispers went up. It certainly fit the setting. Gregor didn't know how many people had died already, and still an offensive was being sent up against the Poison forces.

What really drew the attention of the waiting Regalians was the arrival of the fliers, heralded on the flapping of their wide wings. Immediately, their heads snapped up to see the shadowed forms of the ten volunteer fliers as they met the outside of the city.

"Man, these guys probably haven't seen bats for months," Gregor thought.

Some of them even hoisted their children above their head, trying to give them a better look at the giant bats, maybe because they thought it could be the last time they would see the fliers in the open. Underlanders were pessimists like that.

Aurora and the rest of them in the air must have realize the attention they were drawing from below, so they entered a holding pattern above them, looping between the tall stone towers. It reminded him of pilots. He wouldn't call them glory hogs but they had a certain knack for getting everybody's eyes on them. The memory brought a grin to Gregor's face.

Somebody must have taken their eyes off the fliers, because suddenly, he could feel the weight of hundreds of eyes starting at him. A few people in the crowd were pointing at him too.

"He smiles!" a man shouted, "The Warrior smiles!"

_"Oh jeez,"_ Gregor thought, _"I screwed up again."_

But instead of becoming an angry mob, the crowd fell into hushed whispers as a thousand eyes peered intently at Gregor's face, trying to find the smile that he had quickly dropped. Gregor sped up to get between two columns of marching soldiers, but they effortlessly widened their formation out of respect. There wasn't any relief from the public scrutiny until they exited the walls of Regalia through massive stone doors. In the fields, picked clean by the last harvests, there was less attention being focused on him. They were technically in cutter territory now, and would have to be ready for a fight.

As if to heighten the sense that they were at risk, the lights of the fields behind them cut out once they reached the area that had already been burned by the cutters. In some places, large red-brown stains seemed to suggest that there was fighting here. Gregor was thankful when they passed through the outer wall and had to rely only on their torches for light. He wouldn't have to look too closely at the familiar sign of wartime ruin.

After a quick survey, it Gregor guessed they had something like 500 people marching out of Regalia. There were at least two dozen diggers, arrayed at the flanks and in the front of the formation. The rest were mice, rats, and humans. Thanks to the humans and the shortage of bats to carry them, they were going way slower than Gregor thought possible.

"Man, it's going to take us three weeks, at this rate," Gregor said, under his breath. He had never been a fan of the long truck rides and humvee patrols as part of Recon, but he would have taken either of those over a long march on foot into a combat zone.

"It shall not be so bad, sir," a young voice said.

It was the page that had woken him that morning, comically overburdened with two packs.

"Hey, are you fine with all that stuff? I can take my pack." Gregor said.

"It would be an honor to carry your belongings," the teem said.

"If you say so," Gregor said. If the guy really wanted to, there wasn't any reason to make a scene as long as his stuff remained accessible.

After a while, it became clear that there wasn't a large force of bugs waiting for them just outside of Regalia. The soldiers of various types still held their tight formations as they marched further south, but messengers were being sent in between units, people that were probably not much older than Lizzie.

One of these messengers came looking for him. Perdita was checking in with the commanders of each group, and Gregor was somehow included on the list of people being summoned.

When he arrived to the tight phalanx of guards at the center of the army, Perdita was just finished speaking with the commander of the nibblers. Her face had a sour look to it but she greeted Gregor warmly nonetheless.

"It is a relief to lay eyes on a fighter I can trust around here," she said. "Certainly when I hear that you've been waging war in the Overland as well."

"I don't know if we're talking about the same kinds of war," Gregor said. "I spent a lot of my time just scouting or embedded in enemy territory."

Perdita laughed and clapped Gregor on the shoulder.

"That is exactly the experience we require here," she said. "Did no one inform you on the plan of battle?"

"No," Gregor said, "_Somebody _made sure I didn't get briefed when I first came in."

The frustration in Gregor's tone came out a little too strongly, and he noticed Perdita stand a little straighter. Underlanders got defensive in awkward situations.

"Regardless of the circumstances, I shall give you the details of our campaign now," she said.

A nearby assistant retrieved a spare map and Perdita traced their path with a stick of charcoal.

"Currently we are marching south to the Waterway. When we reach Lethe's Point, a detachment of our watercraft will meet us, assuming that they will not be ambushed. After a night's rest, the combined force will then push east to close with the Gnawer front at Troy."

"Wait, what's Troy?" Gregor asked. The name seemed familiar, but he didn't know for sure.

"Regalia was never the only human settlement in the Underland, but it is the mightiest. Second in position is the Fount, but we are bonded tightly to them. The third, but not the last position belongs to Troy. They live deep in their mines at the center of a maze of stone, and thus avoid much of our troubles."

"I guess this time, they ended up being a target of the cutters," Gregor thought.

"Under Troy, the Poison forces are assembling a large invasion force. The diggers estimate their numbers in the hundreds of thousands."

"Hundreds of thousands?" Gregor said, "I hope we're not planning a showdown."

"If you mean a total engagement with their army, then a 'showdown' is not likely," Perdita said. "But there will need to be some form of distraction to cover for our sappers."

"You mean a sacrifice?"

"Sacrifice is necessary here, for everyone. And I mean everyone," she said, the stress wrinkles on her face suddenly showing. Perdita sighed deeply, but recollected herself.

"A unit of volunteers on fliers shall be tasked with sealing the only path to the Poison lands using blasting gel, but their sacrifice will come to naught if the combustibles are detected. Hence the diversionary movement."

"This is still a lot of people to be risking just to cut them off," Gregor said. He didn't like the idea of wasting an army just to slow the enemy down.

"There is more to the plan of action than that," Perdita said. "The diggers lived in the area long ago and claim that demolishing that tunnel ought to divert the Waterway and flood out their entire webwork of tunnels."

"It'll drown them?" Gregor asked. "Wipe them out entirely?"

"Their queen, their eggs, and any of their allies below." Perdita confirmed. Her voice was matter-of-fact, as if it was completely normal to organize the complete destruction of another civilization.

Gregor really had forgotten just how serious survival was in the Underland. Of course, it wasn't like his own people hadn't found all kind of screwy ways to kill a target. But what Perdita was suggesting was like using a thousand nuclear warheads. Was this really a last resort?

"You're going to kill all of the cutters? Even the normal ones?"

"A 'normal' cutter? No such thing," Perdita scoffed, "They are nothing without their queen. Even if the waters do not take them, the cutter soldiers and workers will die without the guidance of their hive-mothers."

Gregor sighed with relief. If the intelligence from the rest of the Underland didn't extend to the Cutters, then he really didn't have anything to worry about. If the ant queens were the only ones driving the war, and the rest of them were basically robots, and there wouldn't be any real blood on his hands.

Once again, the people around him suddenly put their full attention on him. Even the guards marching around them looked out of the corner of their eyes at him.

"It is well that you appear so relaxed," Perdita said, her eyes flashing with some hidden meaning. "For I wish you to lead the demolition."

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: Into danger, once again.  
Things will be mended and things will be torn.
> 
> Three Acts.
> 
> The Journey, The Destination, and The Return.


	15. At Rest

The kid who had been assigned to carry Gregor's stuff went by the name of Doros. He had enlisted in the army (instead of being drafted), which meant he got to choose his role. As a page, he would serve as an aide to an officer and learn the tools of the trade without having to be on the front lines. Eventually, he said he wanted to be a general.

_"Those are pretty big dreams,"_ Gregor thought to himself as he tried to fall asleep. Night hadn't been an issue for him just a few months ago, but something about coming home and getting used to the comfort of a warm bed reset his body. It had already been an hour and a half, lying on a bedroll in the middle of camp, wishing that his tiredness would drag him down to rest. But something about the weak breeze from the Waterway and the very gentle waves on the shore was keeping him up. Either that, or the way he could visualize the people around him with each breath and recognize that this was the last night for a lot of them.

Most of the soldiers were sleeping. Unlike Gregor, they had never left the fight. Each group could be recognized even from yards away. The gnawers curled with their backs to each other while the nibblers nested into large piles. The humans tossed and turned on their bedrolls, while the diggers slept stretched out on the stomachs, far separated from each other. The fliers were piled up just by Gregor, clearly out of sorts without a roost to hang under.

And none of these different ways of dreaming would matter in a matter of hours, when the army would march into Troy and throw themselves at an unbeatable enemy as nothing but a distraction. Even if the demolition op went smoothly, dozens, or hundreds of the lives here would be snuffed out in bloody combat. Gregor didn't usually get worried like this, but this time it was different. They were outnumbered and even the commanders knew it was impossible to win. 'Victory' would depend on a squadron of 21 people - 10 fliers and 11 riders, carrying every single block of blasting gel they could.

Explosives were something he could deal with. The plastique he had used in the Overland had been chemically formulated with an interest in stability. The older guys let him carry the neat little packages most of the time, but Gregor never felt put out by it. It was an important responsibility but carried a lot of risk. He didn't have pictures of his children or his loved ones tucked away in his gear. If the C4 ever went off early, Gregor always thought it would affect the least number of lives.

The blocks of blasting gel probably weren't all that different from the stuff he had ferried around. Keep it away from open flames, keep it sealed tight. And when you see your target, you plant that destructive seed. Just make sure everyone's far away when it goes off.

Not that they would have the luxury of distance here. The plan was for a line of charges to be set along a section of the tunnel that spanned miles. Because they didn't have timed detonation, each team would have to light their fuse and escape through the nearest exit. For some of the teams, the exit could be right overhead. But at least one would have to go at least half a klick - 500 meters. Even worse for that particular team, they would have to detonate last. The entire plan hinged on people who would have to do their job knowing they could very likely die in the collapse.

Gregor and Aurora had volunteered to be the last team to detonate tunnel. There wasn't really anyone else who was confident enough they could get it done.

Gregor had been in the special forces, but it wasn't like he was in the absolute highest tier. You had to have a lot more experience to qualify for that transfer, and he was only on his 4th year of active duty. They didn't send guys like Gregor's squad to resolve nuclear crises or to rescue members of the Executive branch. The operations he did were important: seize a target, secure a VIP, blow up military targets. But it wasn't like a failure would lead to the defeat of an entire nation. The biggest threats he faced had always been the lives of the squad and the outcome of the mission. Now, the mission and life were one and the same.

Coming from somewhere beyond his hearing, a figure approached him.

"Overlander?" the voice asked.

In the confusion of the night, Gregor went through a mental checklist to make sure he had recognized it correctly. Humans didn't talk like that. The rats had more growling when they spoke, too. The mice spoke English in high, squeaky tones. And none of the moles had ever spoken to him, which meant the voice was a flier's and judging by the higher-pitch harmonics layered into it, the speaker was a female bat. Finishing up Gregor's assessment was the honey-soft way each sentence would end. It was Aurora.

"Aurora?" Gregor asked. "Are you alright?"

"Yes. It is my turn to patrol," she said.

Gregor waited for her to say more, but there was a flat wall of silence on her part.

"Should I come along?" Gregor ventured.

"I would prefer it," she said, and then added hastily "That is, if you were not sleeping."

"No such luck," Gregor said. "I'm wide awake."

Because he didn't feel like waking up Doros, it took a while longer to put on his armor by himself. It would just be a light scout patrol, but it would be wise to test out if the added weight from his gear and see if it was too much for Aurora to carry.

The first tentative flaps into the air seemed to get nowhere, but then the golden-furred bat got up to speed. They were back into the unlit black that made up most of the Underland, and echolocation was the only way Gregor could get a mental picture of where they were. On one side, there was the Waterway, a seemingly infinite expanse of water. And at its shore, the flat peninsula of Lethe's point, with a flotilla of boats docked there.

They flew in a widening circle until he couldn't perceive anything but the rock around him.

"How's the weight?" Gregor asked.

"The fuse will need to be cut longer, so as to grant us more time."

"We'll be a little heavier on the way in, too," he pointed out. "Will you be fine with that?"

Aurora chuckled.

"Blasting gel is not heavy at all. Even in the quantities we are tasked with delivering."

"How do you feel about the rest of it?" Gregor asked.

"The rest of it?"

"We're going to be entering their nest. With so many tunnels around, wouldn't you be worried about getting swarmed? And then getting out?"

"My resolve is absolute, Overlander. Every flier that remains with the humans possesses a great inner strength. Those of us that volunteered have doubly sworn ourselves to duty, to our bonds."

"But your bond isn't even here!"

Gregor forced himself to keep his legs loose. He didn't want to hurt Aurora by grabbing too hard. But the indignation didn't leave him.

"The presence of my bond matters not. If Luxa retained sight of any kind, she would fly with me. If our fates were reversed, I know that she would make this journey herself."

The retort went unanswered, and Aurora took hold of the conversation.

"Is it the same for you, Overlander? Are you resolute? Know you any measure of courage?"

"I have my courage," Gregor said. "Maybe too much of it. I don't know when to stop being brave. I'll do anything. I'll face anything that comes my way."

"Good," Aurora said, "But perhaps-"

"I'm worried about my allies. What if I lead them into a situation that's way over their heads? That's what I mean. What's brave to someone will be reckless to someone else."

"Hmmph, you have been away long," Aurora said. "Do not let the tales they tell in Regalia go to your head. Anyone who is present has come here only because of their own bravery, not anyone else's."

"You're right," Gregor said immediately. "I just... I don't want to let anyone die."

"A noble goal, perhaps. But you must recognize that it lacks utility. Anything that lives will one day die. Flier pups are taught this before they can truly fly."

"Jeez."

"That is not the end of that lesson. The second part of the lesson is that each flier must live the best life they can at any moment. That is why so many of bond with the humans."

"What, you guys try to find reasons to live through somebody else? Head doctors in the Overland would call that unhealthy."

Aurora said nothing and tipped her wing as they banked into another curve, another turn in their patrol.

"There is a good life and there is a good death. A bond provides opportunities for both."

"What if bonds aren't friends?"

"A friend is not needed for a good death nor a good life. Ajax and Solovet were a well-formed example of this. Although his kin shunned him for his murderous ways, his life was well spent and his death even grander."

"But he got ambushed by a bunch of rats that we knew were waiting around. That sounds pretty lame, as far as last stands go."

"The sweetest rise leads to a most bitter fall," Aurora said. "There are some who sing it thus."

"I guess it is better to go out with a bang," Gregor agreed.

"Yes, we who came here find death in battle to be much better to the alternative of being torn apart in some cramped cavern. We sing the ballad of a hero's death long after the particular flier has left this world."

They made another loop around the camp without seeing any sign of the enemy. Even so, the continued to intently scan the area, going low over the cavern floor at times when there might be uncertainty. Each time Aurora dove, the air would push back against them, fluttering her fur and his hair. Gregor heard the familiar sound of the wind beating against his ears and felt a hollowness he didn't have a word for.

"We still sing of Ares," Aurora said.

"What was that?" Gregor asked. Aurora rarely spoke, and when she did, it was usually quiet and brief.

"When we sing the stories of a hero's death, we sing often of Ares."

"That probably fits your definition of a good death," Gregor said. "The Bane was stabbed right in the heart, even though we both suffered for it."

"Your survival makes the story somewhat better, I must admit. If you had died, he might have been remembered only for his earlier time as a bond-breaker."

"He deserves to be known as a hero," Gregor said.

"I am sure that he can mean more than that to us," she said softly.

There wasn't any more talking for the rest of the patrol. The grim determination set in. After one or two hours of rest, they would be back on the march to Troy. And just a while after that, the squadron of bats and humans would dive into the belly of the beast and destroy the single lifeline that connected the cutters to them.

On his return, he had no troubles sleeping, and miraculously felt fully rested when Doros woke him with a light touch. Gregor was ready to die again.

* * *


	16. Collapse

"Are you kidding me? If a single soldier ant gets a whiff of this, you'll get swarmed."

Gregor pulled deeply through his nose and smelled a sharp odor somewhat like almonds. The blasting gel didn't smell like anything he had used before.

"I can kinda smell something," he said. "Is it really that bad?"

"Yeah, it's bad," Ripred snarled. "This actually gives you an excuse to whine. What were the alchemists thinking?"

"Now, wait just a moment," a nearby mouse said, standing on her hindlegs in an attempt to compete with the mound of meat known as Ripred.

"This concentration of blast-compound is needed to generate the correct force. Lower, and we shall lose the total effect."

One of the volunteers stepped forward to offer their opinion, his face grim. One hand rested upon the bat next to him for support.

"We plan to keep the gel slabs wrapped in cloth and moss until we arrive at our demolition zones," he said. "If need be, I am prepared to detonate at all costs."

Gregor grimaced. He had heard that one before. It never was as pretty or honorable as they thought it would be. Especially if their bombs failed to go off right away, leaving enough time for regret.

_"There has to be a better way,"_ Gregor thought, and he went through his mental inventory of gear that he brought. There were the weapons and supplies he had packed...

"Wait, let's test something out," he said.

The chaotic argument between Ripred, the alchemists, and the strike team came to a halt. Gregor was holding something triumphantly in his hand.

"Astounding, Gregor," Ripred said sarcastically. "You found a can!"

It was the spray-can of scent-killer he had bought on the way to New York. It had been a whim, but a plan was working out in Gregor's head.

He demonstrated it by spraying it on a piece of fabric from his tunic, which he had been wearing for more than a day straight.

Ripred took a deep lungful, and shrugged.

"That's pretty good, but it won't work unless most of the ants are distracted. The sappers and the alchemists will stay and prepare, but we've already begun the march. When you see our signal, take off."

"Wilco," Gregor said absentmindedly, preparing his equipment.

"What was that?" Ripred asked.

"Roger that."

Another blank reaction.

"Will comply,' Gregor said, finally.

"Fly you high," the giant rat said, shrugging, already bolting towards the army as it marched onward.

The alchemists looked at the ingredients of the scent killer and recognized a few things, but completely blanked on others. Eventually, Gregor recalled his father explaining how they could use baking soda (although they just called it 'soda' down here) and mix it with water and any kind of soap to make an alternative.

"Such a composition is easily prepared," the proud nibbler alchemist said. "If you would prepare the gel, the secondary concoction could be used for flier and human alike."

Gregor went around, spraying the gel tablets and their cloths without any lights nearby, just to be sure. The volunteering humans and fliers became silent whenever he approached. They wouldn't let him place any of the gel into their harnesses, though. They would do that themselves.

Finally, their own packs of explosive gel were de-scented and secured by twine-like spider silk to Aurora's back. The alchemists came by with a large pot filled with a watery paste that definitely looked like the stuff his uncle once made him use when they hunted whitetail bucks.

With the mixture spread all over themselves, they looked more like some kind of circus act than an elite team on a mission of last resort. Even so, there was one particular ringleader here.

Gregor took his annotated copy of the map and gathered as many people as he could fit in a circle around it.

"I'm sure you all have been training for this longer than I have," he said. "The diggers gave you a good idea of what the area looks like but it's still the better decision to go in as a group. This way, we can react to the situation in there together."

The heads around him nodded. The men and women were all older than him, with the tightly set look around their eyes that suggested quite a few sights. These were no amateurs.

That took some of the worry out of Gregor. He could deal with military men. They lived for orders and plans and do-or-die raids. In short, they were closer to Gregor now than anyone else he had met in the Underland. As he pointed to specific zones on his map and worked through the details of Perdita's plan, their focus was razor-sharp.

"The slowest team will peel off at each site, until there is only one flier and one human left. Wait until you hear the explosion from down the tunnel to set off your charges."

The alchemists arrived again with tiny sackfuls of some kind of resin. It smelled musty, like sap, and for a moment Gregor doubted whether it would hold up to the task, but one of the riders showed how a daggertip worth of the stuff could hold a torch in place on the wall. Apparently, it came from tapping jungle trees and boiling the product until it could be molded with the hands. After being pressed onto a surface and held in place, it bonded like superglue.

Finally, a plume of colored sparks shot out of a cavern mouth from far in the distance. It was the signal, and the time had come to ride. Doros let Gregor grab a few things out of his pack and then joined the alchemists and other support staff who had been left at the camp. There was a flurry of activity as the volunteers got into their positions, and then the entire force was up in the air in a couple of wingbeats.

They flew in two groups, each group spread out in pointed 'V's. The bats would chatter something every now and then in their inaudible ways, and they might take slight variations on their path. In the dead of night, contact of any sort had to be avoided. Being silent and unseen was the only way to keep everyone alive and on the mission.

A wide hole suddenly appeared in the cavern beneath them. Their entry point was a great maw opening deeper into the Earth, the remnant of a spring that had been present before the Waterway had receded, leaving a deeper network caves below. Taking any other of the twisting tunnels and passages would make for terrible flying. Rather than get lost in the tangle of the cutter nest, the group had to enter the vertical tube with a maddening dive.

Gregor tucked his body against Aurora's, trying to keep their frame sleek against the seemingly infinite abyss below. From the brief flashes that he was able to get, not all of the fliers were oriented with their heads down. Some were descending in much smaller spirals, taking their time.

"I hope they'll do all right without us," Gregor whispered to Aurora.

"We remain in hearing distance," she returned.

When Aurora finally brought her wings open to slow down, they were the furthest along. Nobody could keep up with her literally break-neck pace. She took a few idle laps at the cistern that lay at the bottom of the column. Judging by the echoes, the water almost came up to its rim. An even older path carved by flowing water spiraled around them in the walls.

"I ask that you refrain from sound-sensing now that we are at the very core of our enemy's stronghold," Aurora said in a low tone. "They will hear you more readily than my calls."

They proceeded on once the rest of the group made more progress down the sinkhole, flying through a very tight passage that kept Aurora's wing-flaps limited. When they shot out into a tube made of uneven rock, Greogr knew that they had come to the target area.

As his breath involuntarily gave him glimpses of the nearest environment, he noted some kind of liquid rushing along the surface below them. None of the intel he had been given said anything about running water...

And then, Gregor came to conclusion that it wasn't rushing water he was hearing, but a rippling mass of giant ants rushing down the hall, all in one direction. They were soldiers, off to face the meager army that Perdita and Ripred had assembled.

That probably explained why Aurora was dead silent right now. It also pushed his personal opinion of the mission from 'risky' back into 'suicidal'. If cutters possessed any intelligence, they would swarm anyone they heard.

It took a lot of effort to quiet his breathing down even further and to trust the scent-killers that had been liberally applied to everyone. He had forgotten what it could be like to be lost without vision, to be caught out in the absolute true-black of the Underland. Ever since Solovet had him locked in a dungeon and in doing so unlocked Gregor's echolocation, he hadn't been afraid of the dark. But something was coming to him now as he clung to Aurora's back in the tunnel of death.

Among the deep rustling of ant legs across the floor, Gregor could hear the leathery flap of bat wings as they cut into the air. They weren't entirely alone. There were still plenty of riders behind them.

The questions bounced in his head, where they belonged. He wouldn't let the doubt get out of there, couldn't let the fear take his hands and legs. He thought of what he had to lose, and made himself perfectly still. He wondered what Aurora was thinking as they traveled in silence.

Was she caught up in the noise of her every wingstroke, trying to keep quiet while remaining ahead of the rest? Maybe everyone had realized that Gregor's plan was stupid. There was no way that they would be able to do anything against the quantity of cutters below them, whether or not they remained grouped together.

One more pair of wings went out of earshot. It was a good sign that no sound accompanied it. If he heard a single scream or a groan, he would know their cover was blown. If they heard nothing, one more section of the tunnel was set to collapse.

Time became nothing after a long enough time spent hyperfocused on one task. He almost didn't notice the last flier depart their formation. Nine of ten targets were now supposed to be set to blow. The last task would fall to them, and it was the most important. While not the ending section of the tunnel, the portion they were destroying would open up a direct path to the Waterway, and thus flood the ant nests. Without it, the operation would only hinder the attack. They needed to fill this space with water for as deep as it would go.

The stop came before Gregor anticipated. By his measure, it had taken less than an hour's worth of flying to traverse the ten sites along the tunnel. Now came the work.

He moved quickly, knocking splats of resin against the roof of the tunnel with his knife and then pressing each block of blasting gel against it. At some points, Aurora would have to take a rest while Gregor held tight on a ledge that passed their section. The cutters must not have taken any notice, because the two of them couldn't help but brush against the tunnel while they worked.

The task was done easily. In training and in the field, planting explosives eventually became second nature, even when the process got a bit more complicated. The final stage was to lay out the long string fuses. They had to be arranged in such a way that the sparks would set the blocks of blasting gel before the roof came down entirely.

As he wound a length of cable so that it just reached a stuck-on piece, a distant rumble knocked the dust off the ceiling. A few moments later, another shockwave rolled through the stone, sending a wave of movement through the ants below. Somebody had set their payload off too early. If Gregor didn't start the process soon, the mission would be a failure.

"No time for stealth anymore," Gregor told Aurora. "The fuses are set, so we just need to get out of here."

"There is a passage to an upper cavern nearby, halfway between ourselves and the nearest target."

A third explosion from up the line pushed them into action. Gregor led out as much as the fuse as he could, then lit one end with butane. As soon as Aurora saw the sparks kick out from it, she was winging back towards the exit, Gregor balanced upon her.

The cutters were a mess now, a mixture of ants heading forward and ants heading backwards leading to a large traffic jam. Even if any of them could think for themselves and try to escape, they wouldn't be able to make through the chaos. Gregor silently thanked Aurora for the millionth time that day that he was in the air and not on the ground.

They weren't going fast enough, and Aurora was too tired after flying with a heavy load. Gregor cut her harness free and let it drop below them, but their progress wasn't any speedier. They would have to look for a nearer exit and then climb high up it to get clear of the collapse.

A fourth explosion from down the line. Somebody either got impatient or was forced to light their fuse. Had the people at the rear of their formation been detected before the ones at the front?

Now there was a terrible groaning noise from all around them, as if the very earth was undergoing great strain. The explosions now came in a rush, enough to where Gregor couldn't count them. The tiny fragmented weaknesses of the cave system and the ant tunnels bored through it were being pushed to their limits, causing cracks to appear all around them.

The hot flash of his own blasting gel flared white even through his eyelids. Blinking away the afterimages, he was hit by a wave of sound that hurt his ears. He couldn't imagine how it would sound like to a bat like Aurora.

The heat was also on their tail, and he couldn't help but imagine the cloud of fire that was being launched into the tunnel. Aurora suddenly tucked her wings in and zipped through an unbelievably tiny hole.

The insane heat of the tunnel and its cutter hordes became the cool emptiness of an area that seemed to have no roof.

"This is our... exit," Aurora said between breaths.

If any of the previous things could have been difficult, gaining altitude from the bottom of a pit would probably be next to impossible. A film of sweat had risen up on Aurora's fur, and her movements became less and less measured. She was exhausted.

"Hang in there, Aurora!" Gregor called to her.

"Remind me... not... of hanging...," Aurora panted. "I swear... I shall roost for three days straight!"

The rumble became louder than ever, and Gregor realized that he was also hearing rushing water as they slowly progressed on the spiral upwards. Gregor hadn't counted each shockwave, but if the rest of the team was successful, millions of gallons of water would be flooding through the series of blown-open nests.

But the fact that the others' mission had gone well didn't mean that things were over. In fact, it actually posed a problem for him and Aurora. The demolition plan had been successful. Too successful.

The walls above him were coming apart, sending large fragments raining down. Some of the pieces were bigger than Aurora. She could see the falling obstacles ahead of them, but could only dodge. And with each extra movement, they slowed down just a bit.

"I don't think we can make it out this way," Gregor said.

Aurora didn't reply but instead adjusted her path quickly, taking a side exit from the empty column. They were in a normal-sized area now, about three stories tall. They weren't headed upwards but at least they wouldn't be dodging disasters from above.

Instead, the disaster came from all sides. The cavern cleaved in half, one side dropping while the other one tumbled inwards. Aurora ducked under one pillar, pulled her wings in and rolled away from one collapsing stalactite, but couldn't get clear of the spray of rocks. A fist-sized section of stone soared neatly from the collision, hitting Aurora on the front of the head.

Gregor could feel her lose consciousness and her muscles went slack. They weren't too far from the ground, he thought, but he managed to flip the bat's position so that he would touch the ground first and her second. After all, he had the armor.

They hit the cavern floor at an angle, metal grinding against stone and slowing the two of them down. Gregor thought it was pretty neat. But then his helmet crashed into a boulder and he couldn't think anymore. Things were stark black again.

* * *


	17. Lost and Found

The little pocket of air trapped beneath the boulders with them would not last for long. Gregor tried not to imagine how much of it had disappeared in greedy knocked-out breaths. The first thing he needed to do was find his orientation. While he didn't feel like he was upside-down, he tried the spit trick anyway. The petty lipful of saliva he made dribbled past the stubble on his chin and hit the floor.

Now knowing that he wasn't trapped upside down, he wiggled each part of his body. The gravel shifted as his arms moved, and then he tried his legs. They wouldn't budge, and it looked like a rather large piece was pinning the lower half of his body. He twisted his torso in one direction and then the other, searching for an angle that would let him get free, but stopped when his left knee screamed with pain.

It was being slowly crushed by the weight, even with the steel greaves that encased it. The longer he stayed trapped, the more the metal (and eventually the bone) would be pressured.

But before considering his knee, he had to find a way to let more air in. Aurora was somewhere on his right, seemingly untouched by the rockfall. The gap that they existed in was already warm and stuffy, the trapped air slowly being recycled through their lungs.

His knife was still in the holster on the front of his torso. Gregor pulled it out and started to test the gaps in the rubble above him. If he could knock a few pieces out of the way, fresh air could start to be exchanged with the outside.

He probed through the largest fissure and was rewarded by a load of gravel falling onto his chest and a draft of colder air. It was a good sign and got him to redouble his efforts on everything within reach. It took some doing, but the hefty knife and a childhood spent at the sandbox allowed Gregor to free up a lot of air.

With air out of the way, Gregor turned to the other considerations. The temperature was manageable, and the cutters wouldn't be coming at them if the destruction was this bad _above _the explosions. It was food and water that would be the biggest issues.

He had a canteen filled with tapwater from the Overland, and enough food to keep them alive for a few days, but it was lost somewhere in the pile around him.

A draft from the holes he made in the rock blew across his face. The air current lightly tugged at Aurora's fur and Gregor saw her snout twitch. Her body twitched and then she woke fully with a violent jerk and a shriek of pain.

"Aurora? Are you okay?"

"I have been worse," she replied, but the words were spoken through clenched teeth. "How fare your legs?"

"They're intact, more or less. I think the left one is kinda crushed."

"Hmm," the bat responded. "If you enjoy commiseration as much as Ares did, it might lift your spirits to know that my wing has again been dislodged from its socket."

"Oh, jeez," Gregor said, wincing. The flier had been injured years ago when her wing was dislocated, spending months in a jungle cave unable to fly. Although Hamnet and Gregor eventually managed to get the joint placed again, joints rarely returned to normal. It simply got easier and easier for loosened ligaments and tendons to let slip. She might have weakened it during the hard flight and awkward wing placement on the way here.

"I would offer to help, but I think we'd need one and a half more humans, even if I wasn't stuck."

"It takes half of a flight to recover a flier in roost, but I doubt such will come to us," Aurora said darkly.

There was silence as they recalled the other 9 fliers and riders. They could likely have been caught in the landslide, or otherwise finished off after their cover was blown.

"I should have been faster with the blasting gel," Gregor said, giving ineffectual tugs at his trapped legs.

Aurora made a disapproving sound but was unable to speak. Her able wing flapped ineffectually while her body shook with the impulse to move the loose wing.

Flying was instinctual to bats, and the situation painfully limited her. The best he could do was reach out and touch the soft tip of Aurora's wing.

"We must leave here soon," she mumbled. "The promise is fulfilled."

"Don't worry about that," Gregor soothed. "Someone will come sooner rather than later. A rat or mouse would be able to sniff us out, right?"

But Aurora's body continued to shake, her large wings spreading far past her. Involuntary sound of pain burst from her.

Gregor patted her wingtip again.

"Think of the windy cavern back in the Fire Lands," Gregor said. "Lock it down!"

For a moment it seemed like she would control it, but the flapping broke out again and she barked in pain.

"I... can't..." she cried.

"What's the most important thing to you?" Gregor asked. "What are you fighting for? Why are you here?"

"L... Luxa!" she gasped, the word raising into an ultrasonic squeak.

"Good. Think of her," Gregor said, "Focus on that image in your head. Forget about the wing."

Her eyelids snapped shut as she thought of the Queen, her bond. Through sheer force of will, the bat stilled herself. The thrashing fading into occasional shudders.

"The pain has not left me... yet it has weakened quite a lot. Where did you learn this?"

"They call it a 'trigger' in the Overland. It's something you can turn to when everything else is gone. It's supposed to keep you going in tough situations."

The word was probably new to Aruroa, because she spent a few moments before speaking.

"Your 'trigger' then, it was her?" she asked hesitantly. The pain was still in her voice.

"Who?"

"You know to whom I refer, Overlander. And no other."

"I haven't seen her since I was a kid. You think there wouldn't be others?" Gregor asked.

"When I saw you in your last moments together, I knew there would not be another, not for a long while."

"Why are you asking a question you think you know the answer to?" Gregor asked.

"I wished to hear the answer spoken." she said softly. "Or perhaps things would be better if you will not voice it."

"What do you mean by that?"

"A Regalian sovereign only needs a few things to rule: an heir, an able body or able mind, and the desire to support their country in every action. Only one of those needs requires you."

"What, kids? At my age?" Gregor asked.

"Be careful who hears those words. Royalty and inheritance are based upon the existence of heirs. Without descendants, the struggle for succession becomes a very dangerous matter."

"Oh man," Gregor said as he fought to keep his imagination under wraps and focus on the more sensible factors involved in making an heir. "I haven't even had a normal conversation with her."

"I can scarcely imagine that has stopped royals and the nobility of any people, let alone those of the Underland," Aurora said. "You may wish to leave things as they are, and return to your home."

"What if she doesn't want heirs right now? Couldn't Luxa just say she'll get around to it when she wants to?"

"Say you that the Queen's desires are not in line with her people's?" Aurora demanded. Her voice took on a harsh edge and wavered. "Do you think she would take her own needs before those of her subjects?"

"No." Gregor admitted. "Luxa loves Regalia. More than anything else. She would die for her people. She's given them everything she has."

That was the kind of Queen Regalia had. And that was the person Gregor had fallen in love with. The frustration built in him and he couldn't keep the words inside anymore.

"That's who she is and I love her for it," he said simply.

Aurora sighed.

"If only you knew, Overlander. She has suffered too much for their sake."

Aurora kept talking, probably to keep her mind off the pain.

"I rescued her from the ambush at the Fount. I took her upon my back and flew like never before. She couldn't help but scream as the fluids burned in her eyes. The screams continued even as the doctors washed the corrosives out, but she never said a single word of complaint. Even as it became clearer that she would lose her sight permanently."

"There's doctors in the Overland that might be able to fix them," Gregor said.

"She would never go willingly. Not while the city remains in so dangerous a position. There were talks of sending another message to you, but naught came of it."

The conversation came to a natural halt. There was no water at hand and the energy would better be used in other ways. A chat was nice and all, but he was going to be stuck the rest of his life if he couldn't find a way to free his legs.

He scooped gravel and rocks off of himself, relaxing only once he unearthed his upper body and found his weapons still secured in their holsters. Miravet had done a good job with his armor and gear, but he knew he would have to clean everything once he got to a well-lit area.

He pulled his right leg free soon after that, unbuckling the greave and leaving it under the boulder. It didn't really change much, but if he had to cut himself free, Gregor was glad he would keep at least three-and-a-half of his limbs.

The next step was retrieving his canteen. His fingers were already pretty roughed up from the gravel but he tried his best to find the tiny leather pack of supplies by dragging his hands through the pile. He found the handle by accident after a ploom of dust made him sneeze and he brushed against it.

He drank enough from the canteen and wondered about how to get some to Aurora. They decided it would be simplest to pour some along her wing, and she would lap up the water as it ran down the edge.

There wasn't much left after that, but there were a few cubes of 'survival food', which was basically just cubes of fat, sugar, and grain. They would keep them going long enough, and Gregor got pretty good at tossing cubes into her open mouth.

Gregor's watch showed that he had been up for about a day without sleep, so he tried to shut his eyes and rest. He didn't know if he actually went to sleep, or if he just lost focus. He was filled with a mix of thoughts and emotions. There was relief that he survived the mission but anxiety over the fact he was trapped and Aurora wounded. There were doubts about using the Waterway to drown out an entire race.

And there were his feelings about Luxa, or more specifically 'Queen Luxa'. Was he really in love with her, or just in love with the thought of her, the same thoughts he had carried for ten troubled years? And even if his feelings were genuine, how far was he willing to go to be with her? It would be tough explaining to his parents why he was having a kid with a woman he had only recently connected with. And then the entire bundle of worries around raising a Halflander child! He definitely couldn't think this problem through like he could tackle a combat situation. Each question he asked just led to new, more important questions. Questions about himself and his goals for the future. Things that he had tried to forget all about.

Either he woke up or drew a blank on his thoughts, but he suddenly sat up and became alert. He thought he could hear something...

"Feel you, a warmblood, feel you?"

The words came from far away but Gregor could make out the familiar cadence of a crawler.

"It better be. Ripred would personally tear my tail off if we didn't find at least one survivor. Even after I've had to climb down mountains of ruin to search."

That was the rough voice of a gnawer. But he sounded like he knew Ripred, so it was probably relatively friendly.

Gregor could see a faint glow through the cracks in the rocks above him.

"Regalia needs every flier they may receive," a third voice said. This one sounded like a human man. "I hear that the buzzers and the twisters were wholly committed to attack the palace as the army marched out."

"Much relief we gained from these actions," the crawler said. "Thank we the fliers and the killers here, thank we."

The voices sounded like friends. It could have been a trick but the alternative was to be passed over in their only chance for rescue.

"Hello?" he called out. "Who's out there?"

The group didn't respond immediately, probably to confirm they all heard the same thing.

"Overlander, is that you?" the human voice asked.

"Me and Aurora the flier. We're trapped."

"Hold, then. We shall be right over."

As the four approached, Gregor could see glimpses of them in the echoes. Aurora was awake, but would not talk.

As soon as the trio of rescuers arrived and began to pull rubble away, he pelted them with questions.

"What's going on in Regalia?"

"They were attacked by the bees and snakes, a direct assault on the palace. The fighting is hard and the defenses are expected to fail. Most of the troops are either afield or protecting places of shelter."

"What about the Queen?"

"She holds to her self-assigned duty. I hope she may take flight if the fighting comes too close."

"Are there any other survivors from the flying mission?"

"Hold on for a moment, Overlander. We've encountered quite the troublesome stone... No, no one has been recovered yet, except for you."

"Was the mission a success?"

"Most of the cutters were swept away and the army has been sufficient to control the survivors. The waters beneath continue to flow, ensuring that the area beneath Troy will not be used for such purposes again."

"Who are you? What's your name?"

"I believe you might recognize me," the man said.

The largest rock right above Gregor was tipped over, and he saw the face of the eyepatched man, visible in the light from his torch.

"Hey..." Gregor wanted to apologize for the hostility he had shown at the farewell banquet during all the berrywine toasting.

The man held his other hand up.

"I must apologize, Overlander. I misunderstood you. I was born and raised in Troy and heard little of you outside of the gossip that made its way from the trade caravans and merchant-flights. In Regalia, I was caught up in the Queen's criticism of you."

"She's right, for the most part," Gregor said, as he helped the gnawer and the human with moving the largest boulder off his leg.

He winced as the weight came off his knee and opened up a buzzing bundle of nerves. He felt pins and needles in his legs as the bloodflow tried to return to normal. The joint felt sore as he staggered to his feet.

"Thanks for that," Gregor said. "Any longer and I thought I would have to hack it off."

"Grow you new limbs in the Overland, grow you?" the large cockroach suddenly asked.

"Not exactly. We make replacements out of machinery, but they aren't quite the same."

Gregor knew a someone who got prosthetics after losing an arm or a leg to injury, and they told him as much. Better something artificial than not having anything there, though.

"Aurora there is the one in bigger trouble," Gregor said. "She's got a dislocated wing."

"I do not know much about fliers," the man admitted. "We do not bond in Troy."

"Well..." Greogr said, thinking out a potential process. He had a friend back in boot camp who could pop his leg out of his socket pretty easily. It couldn't be that different, right?

A few minutes later, it was clear they were pretty different, but then he was too far along to stop. It was touch-and-go, but Gregor had a bit of experience and knowledge on the anatomy, and it wasn't all that different from a human shoulder joint.

It popped into place with a bit of effort and a lot of pain but Aurora gently tested it. There were no more involuntary whimpers of pain.

"That's a story to tell the pups," the gnawer said, returning to all fours after being used as support. "Seeing an Overlander and shoving a flier's wing back into place in the same day."

"If I can roost for a while longer, I will be able to fly again," Aurora said.

"All is well, then," the sole human of the rescuer's trio said. "I am sure you will make the best time possible in your journey there."

"I'm sure it would be pleasant for the killers' hero to stay and chat, but we have to continue on the search," the gnawer said. "There isn't a single living thing for yards and yards around you."

The group moved on. Aurora hung upside down, her body recovering as she rested. Seeing her resting like that, Gregor remembered something from a while ago.

Returning to base after a mission, their helicopter had engine trouble and everyone aboard had to run for the hills once they made an emergency landing in enemy territory. There were little hollows in the rocky slopes, places where the nocturnal animals fled to after the sun rose. In one of those small caves, the whole unit laid down, packed like sardines into a tiny hollow as the echoes of trucks and the shouting soldiers passed by.

There was some worry that they could have been tracked. Pressed together so tight with the other guys, smelling the rank odor of layered desert sweat, Gregor had been close to bolting out of the claustrophobic space as they waited for rescue. As badly as he wanted to make a break for it and run, he kept on his stomach, looking out on the arid valley below.

Eventually, a pair of bats came to roost. Gregor had thought they would be a pretty good security system. As long as the bats stayed, he could stay still and silent in the terrible heat. If the bats flew, he would find himself on his last reserves of willpower. It was many hours before rescue came and even though no one had died, more than a day of intense tension had etched the memories deep into Gregor's head. He could remember the two little bats, even now.

He wasn't scared now like he had been then. The immediate danger had passed. But Gregor couldn't sit still, thinking of Luxa surrounded and outnumbered by assassins. He lit the torch his rescuers had left behind and used it to inspect his weapons. The pistol had been mostly enclosed by its holster, so it suffered little damage. The big leather holster that Miravet had made also prevented the old submachine gun from being broken, but there was plenty of dust and fragments of rock to remove. His sword was missing, but it hadn't been a special one, so Gregor wasn't too worried. It was his armor that was the most damaged: skidding across the rock floor and being rained on by debris had dented the torso plates. The pieces that used to cover his left leg were basically useless after the giant rock had crushed it. Everything else could be cleaned up a bit to stave off degradation.

As he worked on cleaning his gear, Gregor began to enter a trance. The fact that the snakes were out there was something he should have predicted. Most of the things from the jungle hated humans and the fact they got the better lands, so it was no surprise they would jump at an opportunity to take the human's largest city if they found a way to heat it like the jungle. He didn't want to think of what so many venomous and poisonous things could do to the people who stayed behind. But as long as Aurora rested, Gregor would rest too. But the very moment they could leave, they would rush to Regalia. The Underland may have been saved by the sacrifice of the strangers he never got a chance to know, but it would mean nothing to him if Luxa perished after it.

There were few reasons to believe she would be alive after a full-scale invasion, even if they were able to go to Regalia right now. The situation seemed dire, even before the hours that it would take to get back.

He wasn't a 'glass-half-empty' guy. But he had learned not to let hope get away from him. For Gregor, hope was a thing that rarely thrived without constraints. His mom and dad didn't want a killer for a kid, but their dream had gone out the window years ago. He hadn't become a scientist or a musician or even something basic like an office worker or cook. He had gone out to the fringe of their lives, and he wasn't sure he could ever come back.

When he looked back on his twenty-two years, Gregor thought his life was full of regrets, and when he had free time his mind wandered to every single failure he could recall. People had died because of him, either because he killed them or because they got killed for his sake. He couldn't even forget the ones he couldn't prevent, people like Hamnet and Vikus. He could regret things a lot larger than people, things he wasn't even involved in. The looks of disgust on villager's faces when his unit rolled through their town. The blank-eyed look of broken minds and lost hope. He had wanted peace once, but where was he now?

A twinge of pain from his knee brought Gregor back to reality. He put aside his regrets and set his mind to preventing more of them from piling up. He needed a plan.

The first step after Aurora woke up was to find where Doros and the alchemists had gone to. After getting his backpack from him and the invaluable things within it, he would be able to prepare for a rescue attempt. He had a few ideas on how to insert to the palace, recover Luxa, and then get out. With a plan in mind, he could begin to work in earnest, his idle doubts left behind.

Aurora woke refreshed. After a few laps in the air around him, she confirmed that she could fly on the re-socketed wing. Gregor didn't ask if it hurt. It might even cause damage to fly on it now. But she knew the costs more than any other. By now, they knew just how far the other one would go for the people they loved.

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: The final act of The Return of the Warrior will be published on the Fourth of August, 2017.


	18. Rendezvous

The camp had been moved to be closer to the battle, making the return trip far shorter. After Aurora rose into the air above the cistern, large bonfires could be seen from at least a mile away. As Gregor got closer, he recognized the smell. Burning flesh and fur. He had never forgotten the acrid stench of flaming gnawers after boiling oil was poured upon them and they were lit on fire by the human defenders.

In this case, it must have been some kind of cremation after the battle against the ants. Aurora's wings seemed to flap slower now, but her tense muscles made it clear she wasn't slacking at all. This was as fast as she could go.

A sentry must have spotted them, because there was a sudden outburst from the camp as they moved in to land, both in sound and in movement. Rats, mice, and humans alike were shouting his name - 'The Overlander', 'The Warrior', 'The Victorious'. And when they landed, he would have been swarmed, if not for the domineering presence of Ripred and the humans who drew out a square-shaped cordon to give them space.

Once the crowd stopped trying to push through (even though they kept on making noise), Ripred turned in place, sagging back down into his usual lazy posture.

"Never doubted you'd make it for a moment," Ripred said. "Are you still sure you weren't made for this kind of thing?"

As a child, Gregor would have flatly denied it. But now, he couldn't possibly say he didn't show a talent for it.

"Maybe," he said, dismissively. "I need to find my pack and get back to Regalia."

The large, scarred rat placed a paw on Gregor's shoulder, careful not to let the sharp clawpoints scratch him. It was a little too kind of a gesture, especially from the cynical rager-rat.

"We'll be right behind you. Any of the rats I can make run, and any mouse or man that can keep up."

Gregor's call for Doros spread throughout the camp and eventually the young man was brought to the front of the group of hundreds clamoring to get a look at the Overlander.

"Gregor, sir, I have brought your pack," the youth said as he approached.

"Thanks," he said. "I'm off to Regalia, but what about you and the rest of the humans?"

Doros shuffled his feet and looked down.

"We remain behind to eliminate any stragglers from the ants. We may not arrive in time for the Queen, but she told us this much beforehand."

"So she did speak to you about the plan?"

Doros nodded hesitantly.

"Not solely to me. She addressed all of the Regalians before we left. Because you were so delayed, you were not there when she gave the address."

Gregor looked over his shoulder. Aurora had her snout in a waterbag, drinking deeply, and a pile of dead bugs awaited her after she quenched her thirst. He and the page had a little time to talk.

"What did she say?" Gregor asked. It sounded suspicious that Luxa had prepared this all before.

"Peace-loving creatures were at threat from an alliance of poisonous villains. The warmbloods and the crawlers and spinners who allied with them would not survive against the enemy unless drastic action was sought. The Queen asked that we face our task with bravery, so that she could face hers just the same."

"Her task?"

"She aims to have the buzzers and twisters to attack her instead of the forces deployed against the cutters. After vanquishing the enemy here, she would delay them within her palace long enough for the army to return and destroy them, too."

"But that's impossible!" Gregor shouted. He couldn't help it. The thought was too much to keep unvoiced.

Doros shuffled his feet again, uncomfortable.

"She said it would not be the first time a Queen or King of Regalia had given their life for the benefit of her people."

"Isn't she the last of her line?" Gregor asked. "Didn't everyone want her to pop out an heir before she died, at least?"

Doros gave a squeak when he heard Gregor's rough speech but his sense of duty must have forced him to speak.

"If not Nerissa, then Hazard. If not Hazard, then Susannah and her line. Any page or herald knows the path of succession by heart."

That settled it, then. Luxa had stayed behind, not for her safety, but to further draw part of the enemy attack away from the soldiers. It explained why they hadn't spotted any bees or other enemies on their way to the cutter nests beneath Troy. Luxa was sacrificing herself as bait.

"That settles it, then," Gregor said. "Can you get me a sword?"

Doros nodded, turned to the crowd, and shouted that 'Gregor the Victiorious' required a sword.

At least a dozen swords, were thrown at Gregor's feet, still in their scabbards. Gregor picked the one that looked like it was in the best condition, and saw a man in the front row fall to his knees in joy.

Aurora was done eating by then, so Gregor hopped up on her back, newly armed with a sword and his pack.

"Don't die," Ripred said. "And if that isn't an option, make it count."

"Make it count," Gregor echoed. "Run like the river, Ripred."

"Fly you ever higher, Gregor," the rat returned.

And then they were in the air, the cheers fading far behind them.

"I know the quick ways to Regalia, Gregor," Aurora said. "There may yet be time."

Gregor patted her golden-furred back and pulled the coil of rope out of his pack. He had an absurd idea, but he thought it could work. At this point, improbable chances were the only things he could trust.

* * *


	19. The Eye of Their Swarm

They were flying back to the palace now, far faster than they had been moving along the ground the day before. They would reach Regalia very soon. It gave Gregor a very short time to prepare. Using the rope in his backpack, he followed Aurora's instructions on how to make a rope harness that would leave her wings free but allow for riders to climb up or down a dangling length of rope - it was rare to use it in the past, because gnawers could easily snag a rope, but there was little risk of a snake or bee doing anything with it.

The rope fastened, Gregor focused on trying to keep alert. But in the face of war, not a living thing remained in the open in the Underland.

Eventually, there was some kind of refugee convoy on the path from Regalia, but they were headed in the opposite direction. The mixed crowd of noncombatants was escorted by a few diggers and humans holding torches.

As Gregor flew low, he heard the guards shouting to him 'Make haste!'.

Aurora heard them too, because she sped up once again. It was good to see that the rope didn't slow her down. He would need to hang from it when they approached the High Hall, so that he could dismount without bringing Aurora too close to the danger. Usually, fliers were protected by numbers, but Aurora was alone up here.

At first, she protested, but Gregor argued that they would need a way to evacuate as well, so she had given in and agreed to protect herself.

The groups of refugees became more and more common as they got closer. No one looked injured yet, so it was possible that only the palace had been attacked.

Flying over the first wall, the fields were completely still. Over the second wall, Regalia lay in an unnatural silence as well, none of its tall towers or streets lit. The only source of light was the palace, with its strange circular levels of arches. As he got closer, he could hear the buzzing of the bees as they moved around the palace, clinging to its surface. In the gloom, it looked as if the palace itself was moving, its surface

His clean socks were stuck in Aurora's ears again, to protect her from the sound of gunfire, and his reactive plugs were nestled deeply in his. The first bee noticed them and started to buzz angrily, alerting the rest. As the alarm spread throughout the swarm, the insects began to take flight, slowly moving to surround him and Aurora. They would have to rely on Aurora's superior maneuvering to dodge most of the bugs, but Gregor was well prepared to shoot a few who got too close.

The High Hall remained lit somehow, at the very top of the palace and open to the air. The snakes may have been dropped off there. And now Gregor would have to follow their tracks, dropping from the air and then fighting his way down to the royal chambers. Struggling to look through the swarm to the opening, Gregor thought that he saw flashes of blood.

"Geez," Gregor whispered to himself, but his other hand was reaching for the submachine gun. He was carrying his full magazines in the gear Miravet had affixed over his armor. Easy access.

None of the buzzers would make the first move, so Gregor stuck to the plan. Sliding off of Aurora's back and down onto the rope he had tied to her, he kept one hand free. He would drop onto the balcony and then Aurora would retreat to a safe distance while Gregor did his best to secure Luxa.

The bugs must have seen Gregor get onto the rope, because the fuzzy black-and-yellow blurs suddenly got a lot closer, coming right at him. This was it.

He opened fire at the nearest grouping of bees, but halfway through his first burst, he realized the rager sensation hadn't activated. He could still aim well enough without it, but when he raged, Gregor's aim became nearly perfect. He only got the two nearest bees before the swarm broke off into a quickly moving circle, rising to the flier's level rather than waste their time with the human who was merely hanging on.

Aurora tucked into another mad dive. Gregor hoped it wasn't a suicide rush directly in the direction of the Buzzers, but he could only trust her. He would let go on her signal.

"Drop, Overlander!" Aurora growled, and she twisted her body sideways, her wings flapping open, transferring all of her forward momentum to Gregor on the rope, not hovering over the balcony so much as tossing him at it.

He let go, and was launched like a pebble from a sling, overshooting the balcony of the High Hall and skimming low above the stone tiles within. For a solid second, he floated high above the tiles, passing over the buzzers that had not yet taken to the air. As he touched the ground, he tucked into a safety roll, trying to keep himself from breaking anything. He tumbled for several seconds, trying to control his panic and unable to assess the situation.

"Hand, hand, foot, foot," Gregor repeated to himself as he rolled onto the floor. By rolling, the force from landing was distributed into motion, sparing him the full impact of landing from so many feet in the air. He hadn't always known how to tumble like this...

His brief flight ended as his helmet was knocked from his head and he crashed straight into a wall. The impact shook him, but his head didn't immediately feel scrambled like the times he had gotten concussions. The shock would wear with time and his vision would clear. Before that happened, black and yellow fuzz practically blocked out his field of view, a mesh of pincers and stingers advancing on him. The submachine gun was in his hands and firing before his mind recognized the threat.

The soft-tipped bullets tore through the buzzers who had bunched up and chased him, their wings and abdomens offering no resistance. They were so effective that it didn't even take a full load to kill the bees who had followed him into the High Hall. With the distance advantage, they were barely even a threat. Gregor got up to his feet and saw the outline of Aurora in the distance, as she dodged the bees and flew further and further away. She would return when he had Luxa.

With those immediate concerns out of the way, Gregor got his first chance to look around him. The floor of the High Hall was streaked with blood. His eyes traced up the streams of red for human bodies and found them, unfortunately. He approached on unsteady feet to the nearest one, kicking a twitching bug out of the way with a boot, and gagged at what lay below.

What Gregor saw made no sense. The buzzers were bees, as indicated by the fact that their stingers became stuck in their targets. Bees weren't supposed to eat meat. Yellowjackets from the Overland were carnivorous, but those were wasps. It made sense for wasps to kill their prey and then eat it. Gregor didn't want to understand the sight on the floor of the High Hall, didn't want to recognize what happened to the dead.

The humans who had died in the High Hall were unrecognizable, covered with holes and pits in their bodies where the buzzers had used their mandibles to tear flesh away. Most of the bodies were missing eyes, as if that was the first thing the pincers had closed in on and plucked away. Judging by the way that some of the bodies were crooked, the buzzers had not waited until the warmbloods died to begin eating.

It was a pointless waste of lives, but he could still perform his mission. It was just another addition to the endless reel of horror that played most nights in bed. Gregor pushed it aside. He followed the longest bloodtrail out and down a set of stairs. No doubt the guards who could retreat had fallen back towards the position where they guarded their Queen, leaving their enemies and allies alike where they fell.

Most of the bees had been feasting above, but Gregor got the drop on a few that were picking over the bodies in the corridor. Gregor shot them on sight, no hesitation left in his mind, the trigger lighter than ever underneath his finger. He knew the sounds of gunfire would echo loudly in every possible direction. He was counting on it. He wanted them to hear him coming.

He heard the snakes from around the corner before he saw them, but it didn't really change the end result for them. From the depths of his memory, he recognized them and from more than ten yards away, they were interrupted mid-hiss, bodies turning into nothing but fragments, the soft-tipped bullets disintegrating into shrapnel within their bodies. Gregor walked past that first group of twisters and further down corridor at a measured pace, following the series of fallen barricades and dead men and women.

It felt weird to him, but he knew it was the correct path to take. Perhaps it was a longer route, but Gregor knew that a love of the Queen and a love of Regalia made the guards do what they did. Knowing that, he could track them, even when the bloodtrails split and the path seemed impossible to find. It felt morbid, it felt ghoulish, but he knew that the places where the pools of blood were the largest were the locations of the people who had stood and fought. In a tactical retreat, one would not draw out combat, but in a last stand, there was nothing to do but fight, until the enemy directly forced you back. He chose the hallways where the most had been spilled and follow the hope of the hopeless deeper into the palace, killing whatever stood in his way.

At some point, the bees must have stopped, and left the job mainly to the snakes. They tried to ambush him at various points, hiding in dark alcoves and underneath debris, but none was fast enough to best him. Not only was Gregor only killing the giant snakes now, the swollen corpses of the humans were now joined with nibblers and gnawers. They all had multiple bite marks on them, where fangs had sunk deep and venom had started to flow, a sign that battle had just barely passed this place.

The freshness of the bodies told him that he was getting closer, but he couldn't have known just how soon the guards were defeated until he saw a twitch of movement. A nibbler lay against the wall, curled into a ball while a blood trickled from its gut.

"Warrior!" he exclaimed. Gregor checked to make sure there wasn't a trap waiting and knelt at the fallen mouse's side. Taking a look at the wound he was hiding under his forepaws, Gregor saw that the nibbler didn't have much light left at all. He could see ruptured entrails behind a flap of torn skin, a weeping dark red hole surrounded by brown fur.

Gregor placed a hand gently on the nibbler's head. This wasn't the first time he'd been in a situation like this. There was nothing else to do for him than be close.

"Warrior... You saved me at the Battle of the Firelands," the mouse gasped. "I was drowning... and you placed me upon you."

Gregor could faintly remember that desperate moment, right before the army lit an entire tunnel full of oil on fire. But he hadn't remember the young mouse he had saved.

"Who would have known?" the nibbler whispered, eyes wide but unreadable, his words barely even audible now. His breath caught in failing lungs with a rattle. "Who would have known that..."

The sentence went unfinished. The nibbler was dead. He was younger than Boots, even though age didn't exactly work like that in the Underland. How many other lives were saved ten years ago just to be lost on this day?

Gregor checked his weapons, reassured by the steel. He would carry the memory of the unnamed nibbler with him all the way to the center of this mess. The royal chambers could not be too far separated from here. He broke out into a sprint.

The snakes were really starting to mob him now, so he switched to his sword in one hand and the pistol in the other. He had faced hundreds of them when he was twelve years old, so they didn't offer his more-experienced self much trouble. He knew it could have been different if he was present during the assault, instead of arriving in its aftermath. It would have been more difficult, but maybe...

Gregor's mind jolted and he leaned to the side with a sudden jerk. A blob of venom just barely missed his head. Gregor fired a true shot at the wide-jawed cobra that had spat it, and cursed himself for letting his guard down. He was still in trouble here.

The blood spatters beneath him became wetter and wetter as he hurried down a long set of steps, vaulted over a barricade made of stone furniture, and finally came to the site of the real last stand.

The area in front of the royal chambers was wide and open, leading up to a double-staircase up to two wide stone doors. The floor in front of the stairs was scorched with burns and covered with charred corpses of all species. Behind those were stacks of thick stone cubes which had been placed as temporary fortifications in front of the door. Dead guards leaned from the top of the stairway, blood dripping from their limp hands.

Gregor only had a single moment to regret how scenes of carnage had stopped disgusting him. He could feel little more than anger at the moment. Just as he promised that the sadness would come later, the snakes mobbed him from all sides, appearing from underneath bodies and dropping from wall sconces. He was surrounded by them, and their constant motion made his head dance. The floor was literally covered with twisters in seconds, and it was only increasing with time as they began piling on top of each other. They were attempting to beat him with numbers.

Even still, he wasn't going to let them stop him. They tried to strike in unison, but echolocation gave him enough forewarning to dodge and strike attacks from any angle. The patterns from his training years ago, the lethal dance of swords, came to him again. His instincts had him bobbing and weaving, his feet stepping cleanly in and out of their unruly mass. His sword cleaved through anything that came at him with open jaws as he smashed the smaller ones beneath his boots.

What his instincts didn't warn him about was the fact that a large python was slowly encircling his left leg. He was too focused on moving his upper body to recognize the sensation until it was too late.

The large, muscular snake used its entire body against one joint, pulling tight against his already weakened knee and holding.

Gregor screamed in pain, but could only remain standing. He chopped tens of the twisters as they tried to take advantage of the opening, severing their heads or slicing them right down the middle to keep their fangs away.

He dropped his pistol into its holster and pulled the knife out with his left hand. The python was in a difficult to reach spot.

It snake kept tightening its grip further and further. Gregor could feel his blood cutting off, his bones creaking... And then it felt like his knee burst.

He let out a beastlike howl. He lost control over himself entirely, unable to recognize anything, it was all just broken images and blurred sensations. He dropped his sword just as the python bit him in the rear.

The knife worked quickly in his hand, first stabbing through the head of the snake, then cutting off the neck, then breaking the jaw's hold on his hindquarter by using its haft as a lever.

His voice raised into a monstrous growl, and the sword was back in his hand. Gregor entered a spin immediately, feeling himself pivot around his left leg, the dead python's muscles still holding his knee in a death grip and keeping him in place. With a knife in his left hand and a sword in his right, everything that approached him was killed, but the twisters maintained their assault. The hissing grew louder in his ears while his knee re-educated him on just what pain meant.

The twisters likely had relied on surprise to kill so many, but he was far from surprised by them now. He easily caught the snakes that flung themselves towards him, impaling the constrictors against the floor, drawing the gun only to eliminate the venom-spitters. Now that pain had come to him, Gregor did not let the big, silent ones come up on him. It was nothing but killing for a very, very long time, and he lost track of himself in the massacre.

At some point, the headless body of the python let go of his leg. Gregor immediately stumbled and collapsed into one of the stone barriers, clinging to it to stay upright. His vision spun and he swung his sword randomly at the space around him, but he saw nothing but the thin blood of snakes all over himself and his weapon The remains of his enemies had formed a circle around him, segments of scaly hide and red gore stacked up to hip level. Looking at it, he felt mildly nauseous. Was he still dizzy?

He knew it was likely that he was poisoned. At least one snake had gotten a bite in. It wouldn't feel right otherwise. Scores of dead guards and some loser from the Overland is the one who survives? Gregor felt himself start to fade. He was too tired. He hoped Aurora had made it out okay...

_Wait, Aurora was still waiting for him_. Gregor tried to stand, but his left knee wouldn't hold him. On his hands and one knee, he looked around. He was still outside of the royal chambers._ Luxa was here. Right?_

Like a snake, he dragged himself through the blood. It was just like boot camp, on the worst parts of the obstacle course. Pull yourself through to the end. The memories stopped being useful when the flight of stairs began. Those just plain hurt to climb. He was totally spent as he approached the stone doors. They were ajar by a few feet, enough for the twisters to flood the enclosed space. It was too late, then. The snakes could fit in that gap, and no doubt would have already overwhelmed anyone trapped within. He was too tired to mourn the simple thought of her being dead. He could keep pushing himself until he saw the body.

Gregor, still on his stomach, pushed as hard as he could on the stone slab and it slowly opened further. It got wide enough to fit him if he wiggled, and he took the opportunity, his armor sliding by with a wet grinding noise. First was the room with the fireplace. Luxa's own chambers were straight ahead, past an entire room full of the dead. Some of them were still warm, yet frozen in the never-blinking sleep of the dead, a fact Gregor didn't want to acknowledge as he crawled over them.

Through the door was the Queen's chambers, but it wasn't yet her bedroom proper. It was something of a study and dining area, noted by the furniture that had been pushed to the edges of the room. This was the end of the bloodtrail. Gregor followed it with his eyes.

And then, at the center of the room, he saw Luxa. She was lying face-up, a spear grasped in one pale hand. Her white gown was drenched with blood and she lay perfectly still. It was exactly what he had feared.

That was it, then. The end of the story. Gregor thought he was coming to the rescue again, but really, it was just another screwy Underland story. There had been nothing here for him but the kill.

"Luxa!" Gregor sobbed. "Luxa!"

The despair was unlike anything he had felt before. He rolled onto his back, out of reasons to keep struggling. He looked to the queen as she lay there, willing to look at the consequences of his actions.

Then, she turned her head, her crown still placed perfectly atop it. The opaque eyes were unseeing, but her face undeniably showed recognition. She was alive.

"Gregor?" she asked.

Miraculously, she stood up, her feet bare but splattered with blood.

Gregor crawled just a few feet further, off of the sodden rugs and onto the bare circle of stone she had been resting in. The words had left him. He let one gloved hand reach out and touch the hem of her gown, smearing fresh blood on the already-dried stains that lay there. He couldn't move.

"Gregor?" she asked again, and a note of worry entered her voice.

He felt himself being dragged just a little bit away and being sat upright against a wall. Luxa was strong, so unbelievably strong...

He came to when a damp cloth started wiping at his face. The aftermath of his rampage through the halls was wiped away, although it still covered much of the rest of his body. It seemed pretty pointless, since there could still be fighting.

All he could manage to ask was 'Why?'.

"Because, Gregor, it makes it much better to do _this_," Luxa said, leaning forward and kissing him on the lips.

He almost passed out right there, but the light touch of her lips was hastily followed by a handful of leaves being stuffed into his mouth.

"These will be far more useful to you, I admit."

Gregor chewed automatically, the sharp herbal flavor of the leaves attacking his mouth, which felt swollen after hours without water.

They woke him up immediately, and Gregor remembered where he was again.

"We have to get out of here," he mumbled to himself, his mind still adjusting to Luxa being there with him and the kiss they had just shared.

"I know this. But we will not get far with you so spent," she said. "Rest for but a moment, and then we go."

Her voice was firm, but she looked less tense than before. She held a cloth to his lips and Gregor sucked the moisture out, knowing that drinking anything directly could turn his stomach.

"Aurora... Aurora is waiting," Gregor said.

"Is she? Truly?" Luxa asked. She was not smiling, but her relief could be felt, even through his layers of metal plates and chainmail. "I am unbelievably glad she lives. And that you accompany her. So many of the others are dead."

"Who?" Gregor asked weakly. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

"Few that you know. The head of my guard, Miranda, was killed, as were many others. The likes of Miravet and Howard may still hold the hospital, or they have retreated elsewhere, to where Nerissa and the council traveled. Mareth commands the defense of the city, so he was not present here when they made their assault."

"How... did you survive?" Gregor asked, in between greedy sips of water.

"The guards fought bravely and to the last man," Luxa said. "And then I fought the few twisters who arrived in my room. The spear serves me well without my sight. At one point, I was almost ended by their sheer numbers, until they abandoned me outright. I feared I was bit, without knowing it."

"That must have been when I showed up," Gregor guessed. "They threw everything they had at me."

"I heard strange noises, but thought them some sort of beast," Luxa admitted. "But enough of that. Are you well to walk?"

"I don't know."

Gregor's knee may have been fractured. But when Luxa helped him up and then brought his arm around her shoulder to let him lean on her, he felt like he could put just a tiny bit of weight on it.

"And now we know," she said. "Come, we must be away before their next army arrives."

Gregor's head cleared more and more with each step they shared. When he turned his head, the faint smell of her hair filled his nostrils, almost blocking out the metallic burn of gore and death. He still couldn't believe he was close to her like this. He hadn't been mentally present the previous times he and Luxa had drawn near to each other, but now there were no barriers of inebriation and anger. It really took him away from the situation.

The tight grip she held at his belt kept him upright and moving, and he steered their way through the chambers, around her protectors, dutiful to the end.

The stairs were easier this time around, now that he could stand. There was a deep weakness still in his body, but it wasn't impossible to take each step.

"Where to?" Gregor asked.

"The High Hall is at the top of too many stairs. Perhaps a window upon this level will suffice. Will you manage it?"

Gregor nodded, taking another step. It didn't seem impossible quite yet. As long as no more of the snakes showed up, he could keep going.

As if summoned by the very thought, a snake's head appeared from around a corner. For a moment, it seemed like a hallucination, because while it seemed very much like a member of the previous horde, it was gigantic, nearly as wide as the expansive halls surrounding the royal chambers. It was the largest living thing Gregor had seen in the Underland, outside of the aquatic beasts from the Waterway.

It had no eyes, but the determined way it faced them made it pretty clear that it recognized them as targets.

Luxa was silent for a moment, hearing it wriggle slowly down the hallway.

"What manner of creature is it?" she asked, her voice almost breathless.

"A giant snake," Gregor whispered. "Almost as wide as the hall."

"_**OVERLANDER!" **_it bellowed, a voice so loud and deep that Gregor could feel it vibrate in his chest. _**"THINK YOU FORGOTTEN BY THE DEAD?"**_

Its width slowed its progress down, as it scraped from side to side down the corridor. But they wouldn't be fast enough to escape it. A sense of panic and a sense of responsibility clashed in his brain. It was targeting him.

"Let me down," Gregor said.

"No. I shall escape with you, or not at all."

"Please," he begged. "I can kill it, if I have both arms."

Luxa didn't say anything, but Gregor was set onto his rear (the python-bite still ached with pain). He took his firearms out, trying not to get too depressed about what was about to happen.

"_**OVERLANDER! KILLER OF MY KIN. WITNESS ME,**_" the monster commanded him. "_**WITNESS YOUR DEATH."**_

_"What, like I have a choice when you're that big?" _Gregor thought.

He would get a few good shots in, but there was no way something that large could be stopped before it got to him. Bleeding out would take a while more for something that large. It didn't have eyes to target either, but maybe it still had the holes in its skull for them.

_"__**THIS IS YOUR RECKONING, WARRIOR,**__" _it proclaimed. _"__**THIS IS THE DEATH YOU HAVE CHEATED.**__"_

First, he used the pistol. The fully-jacketed metal bullets had the best chance against the giant snake's skull. He fired one-two-three shots into where he guessed the eyes would have been, generations before the dark bred it out. Four-five-six into the other socket. Gunsmoke filled his nostrils, the flash startling his vision.

The thing hissed in pain but did not stop. At this rate, Gregor would be swallowed up before he was out of bullets.

"_**YOUR TOYS CANNOT HARM ME. I AM VENGEANCE INCARNATE.**_"

The jaws were almost on top him. He had run out of options.

Then he felt Luxa's surprisingly soft knuckles at his neck as she grasped the back of his armor and pulled. They were moving backwards down the hallway again.

"Just go!" Gregor tried to tell her, but he wasn't sure if she could hear him over the constant crack of gunfire.

_"_ _ **YOU AND THE KILLER'S QUEEN HAVE BREATHED YOUR LAST.** _ _"_

He emptied the pistol into the giant snake, getting definite hits but nothing immediately fatal. The decades-old submachine gun was his last resort. If that didn't work, he would just hope his sword would be at an awkward angle when he got swallowed, enough to slow it down.

The M3 spat lethal fire across the face of the snake. The rounds really did expand inside the target, judging by the way that sprays of blood were starting to erupt from the exit wounds. Gregor managed the kick handily, keeping the _tak-tak-tak _of automatic fire on target.

The thing slowed down and flinched with each shot, but it continued, its face becoming more and more disgusting the more it received the projectiles. With a '_click', _the last gun was empty. There was no time for a reload. Gregor drew his knife, hoping that the rager instinct could somehow stop those jaws, larger even than he was.

"_**NOW ENDS THE REIGN OF REGALIA**__," _the snake pronounced without emotion, looming over Gregor on the floor, its own blood dripping onto him.

The thing's jaws finally opened, revealing the rippled folds of it's mouth. Gregor lunged-

And found that the shining metal point of a spear had beat him to his target. Luxa, still behind him, had used her spear and stabbed upwards into the thing's neck.

It shook and hissed, but couldn't retreat.

"Thrust upwards!" Luxa commanded. "Just behind the eyes."

Gregor obliged, striking out with his knife. He was surprised by how little the flesh resisted, the knife point going up through the soft roof of its mouth. Using both hands and leaning forwards, Gregor pushed it even further, ending in something squishy.

The giant twitched, and Gregor realized Luxa's directions were spot on. He sawed an X-pattern across the thing with his knife and felt the thing shudder into silence.

Satisfied with the result, Luxa removed the spear and the the jaws snapped shut, the mysterious assailant lying still.

Another fight so soon had really gassed Gregor out. The rager state messed with his head increasingly worse the longer it went on.

"What?" was the only thing he could say in reference to Luxa's masterful stab.

Luxa rested a hand lightly on his hair as she spoke, reassuring herself of his presence.

"It was a simple matter of timing," she said. "What, did you think my ears and my mind left me as well?"

"No," was all Gregor was able to say. He had a serious case of tunnel vision, darkness pulling in at the corners of his eyes. He was fading away, being dragged off once again...

Until he saw Ripred.

"Wait," Gregor said. "It's Ripred."

Luxa stopped, then sniffed the air.

"If it is not some other rat, you are correct."

The giant rat was followed by plenty of other gnawers, and even a few humans. They all looked dead tired and disgusted at the scene within the palace, but Ripred sprinted for the two survivors the moment he saw them, clambering over the folds of the giant snake.

"I see Gregor got his chance to play hero," Ripred said, nudging the snake's head with his hindleg.

"Hardly. He merely struck the final blow," Luxa said jokingly. But then her face hardened up. "It was not his fault that this situation is beyond a hero's actions."

"Hero enough in my book," Ripred said. "Or did he steer you past the entire twister army he killed single-handedly?"

"I did not know this. He has not been able to speak much. I feared that it was poison."

Ripred poked his nose near Gregor's face and sniffed.

"It isn't poison. It's exhaustion. The stupor should disappear with a few days of rest. Preferably far from Regalia."

"Where? The Fount? The Dead Lands?" Luxa asked.

"The council was conferring before this whole mess, and we believe the best place would be... New York City."

* * *


	20. Waiting for Stella

"The Overland? Impossible," Luxa whispered, as if in doubt that it even existed.

"Sandwich's rules aren't all equally important," Ripred said. "You wouldn't be the first royal to break his code for personal purposes."

"How will we survive there?"

"Gregor has kin and friends above. Stay near the apartment of _la bella Cormaci_, and a message will be sent once safety has returned."

"I cannot," Luxa said. "Now that the danger has passed, my place is in Regalia."

Ripred snarled, baring his teeth at Luxa.

"The danger has passed, you say? Do you not know the thousands of cutter survivors in the Jungle, or the twisters still held in reserve? Not to speak of the lobsters and their nefarious plans. The danger has far from passed."

"I swore..." Luxa responded, struggling to find the words. "I swore to give my life to Regalia."

"And if you disappear for a while, the Poison might think they took it. Even better, you won't need to repeat _this _macabre scene," Ripred said, gesturing to the carnage that lay behind him.

"The Overlander supports me, right?"

The rat turned to Gregor with a wink, and he responded with a limp thumbs up.

"See, it's two against three," Ripred said, but then he got serious. "Get out of here before any of their scouts can spot you two. We can pretend that you're both dead and goad them into a trap."

Gregor faded in and out of consciousness in the next few minutes, but Aurora was suddenly at the window behind him, and he was dropped onto her back. Then, Luxa followed, deftly tumbling into position behind him.

"Aurora, Aurora, Aurora," Luxa repeated, stroking the golden fur of her neck from around Gregor.

"Yes? Yes? Yes?" the bat responded back, and then chuckled. They probably hadn't flown together in a long time.

Gregor couldn't catch their conversation as they whispered back and forth, but he felt safe and secure, tucked between Luxa and her bond. Pressed on both sides, his mind retreated into sleep.

He woke up as Aurora lightly tipped him onto the floor beneath the stairway.

"I will wait for a while, then return to Regalia," Aurora explained.

Gregor reached a hand up to Aurora, and she met it with a brush from her wing.

"I owe you much, Overlander."

"After all the times you kept us alive, I'd call it even," Gregor said.

He could sit up now, unbuckling his armor from across his body. He tucked it under the stairs, hoping that it would stay safe in the dry tunnel air. The sword and the rest of his Underland gear joined it, but everything from the Overland he would take with him.

It would be a different place up there. Gregor's watch showed it was 3 in the morning. He hoped there wasn't still a cop guarding it up there.

Luxa offered to take one of his bags as they went up the stairs, and he didn't turn her down. They were heavy with everything he had carried in with him.

"Up?" he asked.

"Up," she confirmed, and they climbed the stairs like before, him leaning on her shoulder.

They reached the top and a new stone slab was present. Lifting and pushing, it rolled back with a deep scraping sound. It was almost a repeat of the last time they were here, almost ten years ago.

Since then, Gregor had seen the stars from desert battlefields, witnessed the true light of the Milky Way from the tops of mountains and the heart of jungles. Compared to those places, the stars really weren't all that memorable in New York. The lights of Manhattan were far more than any constellation could compete with - the faint rays that had traveled millions of miles to reach Earth had simply been outshone by thousands of electric currents being run through filaments and semiconductors.

But the memory of Luxa and the stars was something he could hold onto. One last bittersweet look at the Underland, he had thought that distant night. One last parting gift.

A snowflake settled on her forehead, and she shivered, reminding him once again that she was here, and that she was real.

Gregor intercepted the question on her lips.

"That was snow. It's snowing."

This time, he and Luxa had climbed together. He didn't have the energy or the courage to say all the things he wanted to say right now. He wanted to explain just how he thought he could be in love with a girl he had only met a few days ago. He wanted to explain how, in a world that was full of so many sad things, the time he had spent with her ended up being some of the saddest and yet the sweetest.

Gregor wanted to say the biggest words to her, those words that would make things official. He wanted to tell her what she had taught him, to explain the way he hurt and the way he hungered every time he looked at her. But he couldn't, not right now. Not like this.

And just before Luxa cocked her head at him to ask him a question, the floodlights snapped on, and his vision blanked out into white.

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I must thank the reader, for spending this much time on something published on the web. Looking at chapter views, I get an idea of how many people actually stuck with story, rather than abandon it in its admittedly slow opening act. Perhaps you have the greater accomplishment here, O dedicated readers. I applaud you.
> 
> Not to forget the superb work of Collins here. I mistakenly started her series on the last book when I was as old as Gregor, but somehow I'm still here writing about him. His character is one of depth and I respect the talent and work that was put into making him feel real. It somewhat shames me that I've given him a somewhat unhappy decade since his resolution for nonviolence, but I promise that things will be better and peace can be made.
> 
> On a similar note, I did not intend to end this segment of the story on a cliffhanger. I assure you, there is no immediate danger to the characters in Central Park. The lights simply herald a return of a friend. There is time for rest and recovery for Over and Under alike in the time ahead.
> 
> Indeed, a sequel is in development. Called "Light and Victory", expect it sometime this year (perhaps). At this point, it's a story about love and the search for lost youth. If The Return of The Warrior was about coming back to your past, Light and Victory will be about creating a better future.
> 
> Until then, farewell. Run faster than the rivers, fly higher than the skies.


	21. Epilogue: Those Who Wait in The Shadows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally published in December 2017, this is essentially just a sample and a authorial note for the sequel, Victory and light

I hope you are enjoying the festive season. To make my title just a little more original, I've changed it to something that more or less has the same effect. 'The Fate of Many, Return of One' is a title that I feel is more descriptive of the theme I wanted to press forward with. This work started off as a vague idea in my head, but it eventually grew into something much larger than I should have let it.

The sequel (and hopefully my last extensive work on the series) is titled 'Victory and Light'. As I noted before, it is meant to be Yin to the Yang of this series. There will be action but there will also be an emotional reckoning for Gregor and Luxa as they figure out what exactly they will mean to each other and how far they must go to be where they want. I am about fifty thousand words into it, and will probably start publishing very soon, editing and posting a batch of chapters each week until we reach the end.

I improved on the title art (in my opinion), trying to balance the symbology of the crown, the gun, the armor, and the green of Poison. The cover image for 'Victory and Light is more understated, and I look forward to being able to share it along with the conclusion to this story soon.

Until then, let me leave you with a brief explanation about the people who ambushed Luxa and Gregor in Central Park:  
_

_The threat of nuclear war in the last century demanded ways to keep the citizenry safe. Massive shelters were excavated under New York, large concrete boxes extending just off of the subway lines. One of these passages had an entrance near Central Park. As time went on and the bombs never dropped, maintenance crews began seeing things. Rats larger than men, giant cockroaches, and more._

_The reports were passed up the chain of command until someone got the FBI to check it out. Using state-of-the-art sonar equipment, a very extensive cavern system was discovered. When lethally-hostile creatures were discovered as well, the surviving FBI agents refused to investigate further, on the grounds that supernatural occurrences were not in their jurisdiction._

_Fortunately, there was a quasi-governmental unit just coming into existence who found the supernatural very much in their jurisdiction. As the world became connected through telephone lines and radio waves, it became clear to multiple influential people that Earth was not as mundane as we thought it was. Certifiable proof was being found of portals between worlds, forgotten creatures under New York City, superhuman abilities, and more. Elements from across NATO soon formed a group that would catalog and control these events and keep them safe from Soviet control. By 1991, the group had expanded to more than a hundred countries._

_Operating in utter secrecy and almost entirely independent of each other, small cells of personnel keep the daily illusion of the normal world going by monitoring abnormalities and shielding them from the public eye in the interest of civic peace._

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note:  
This is a prelude to Gregor's return to the Underland, explaining how he has changed and the experiences that have affected him.  
Chapter titles describe the phase of the story.  
This fic is already written, for the most part. It will be released in batches every week.  
I hope you enjoy this fanfiction, written in an epic scope
> 
> Added in 2020: Having read this over again, the opening sequence (labeled under prelude) has a different tone and context than the parts following it. I was inspired by a song called 'Loss Leaves You' by Flossed in Paradise-- I recommend giving it a listen (I believe they released a new album to spotify/bandcamp/youtube). Chasing that sense of desperation, of yearning, led me on this path. I wasn't sure what I wanted it to be at the beginning, but I can assure you that I understood it by the end. I hope you can understand.


End file.
